Presenting the other members of the staff to Ahmad, he said, "Miss Sawsan Hammad, Mr. Ibrahim Rizq, and Mr. Yusuf al-Jamil."
They shook hands with Ahmad and welcomed him. Then, to be polite, Ibrahim Rizq said, "His name is well known here at the magazine."
Smiling, Mr. Adli Karim observed, "He was our first subscriber and has grown up with the magazine". Pointing to the desk of Yusuf al-Jamil, he added, "You will use this desk, for its occupant spends little time here."
When Adli Karim left the room, Yusuf al-Jamil invited Ahmad to sit down near his desk. He waited until the young man was seated and then said, "Miss Sawsan will allocate your work. You might as well have a cup of coffee now."
He pressed a buzzer, and Ahmad began to study their faces and the room. Ibrahim Rizq, a middle-aged man of decrepit appearance, looked ten years older than he actually was. Yusuf al-Jamil was a mature young man whose looks suggested an alert intelligence. Glancing at Sawsan Hammad, Ahmad wondered whether she remembered him. He had not seen her since that first encounter in 1936. Their eyes met. Wishing to escape from his silence, he mentioned with a smile, "I saw you here five years ago…". Detecting a look of recognition in her eyes, he continued: "I asked wtiat had happened to one of my articles that had not been published yet."
Smiling, she said, "I can almost remember that. In any case, we've published many of your articles since then."
Yusuf al-Jamil commented, "Articles that reveal a fine progressive spirit."
Ibrahim Rizq said, "People have a heightened awareness today. Out on the street wherever I look I see the phrase 'Bread and liberty.' This is the people's new slogan."
Sawsan Hammad remarked with interest, "It's a most beautiful one. Especially at this time when gloom encompasses the world."
Ahmad understood what her words implied, and with enthusiastic delight his soul responded to this new environment. He replied, "The world certainly is cloaked in darkness, but until Hitler attacks Britain, there's still hope of salvation."
Sawsan Hammad said, "I see the situation from another angle. Don't you suppose that if Hitler attacks Britain, it's probable that both giants will be destroyed or at least that the balance of power will shift to Russia?"
"What if the opposite happens? I mean, what if Hitler subdues the British Isles and achieves an uncontested supremacy?"
Yusuf al-Jamil said, "Napoleon, like Hitler, took on all of Europe, but Russia was his downfall."
In this pure atmosphere, with these liberated comrades and this enlightened and beautiful colleague, Ahmad felt more alive and vigorous than ever before. For some reason he thought of Alawiya Sabri and the tormented year during which he had wrestled with unrequited love until he had finally emerged the victor. From the depths of his heart he had cursed that love morning and evening until it had dispersed into thin air, leaving behind enduring traces of rebellious resentment. She was now home in al-Ma'adi, waiting for a husband with an income of at least fifty pounds a month. The girl here was calling for a Russian victory. What was she waiting for?
Then Sawsan waved a sheaf of papers in his direction as she said gently, "Would you mind?"
He rose and walked over to her desk to begin his new career.
149
Yusuf al-Jamil came into the office only once or twice a week, since most of his energies were directed toward soliciting advertising and subscriptions. Similarly, Ibrahim Rizq remained in the editorial department for no more than an hour a day before he left for one of the other magazineshe helped edit. Most of the time they were alone: Ahmad and Sawsan. Once, when the chief pressman from the printshop came to get some copy, Ahmad was astounded to hear her call him "Father". Afterward, he learned that Mr. Adli Karim himself was related to the man, and this information was a thrilling surprise.
Even more stunning than Sawsan was her diligence. She was the heart of the editorial department and its dynamo. She did far more work than the mere editing of the magazine required, for she was always reading and writing. She seemed serious, bright, and extremely intelligent, and from the very first he was conscious of her forceful personality. So much so that in spite of her attractive black eyes and charmingly feminine body he occasionally imagined himself in the presence of a well-disciplined man with a strong will. Her industry motivated him to work with an assiduous zeal impervious to fatigue and boredom. He had assumed responsibility for translating excerpts from international cultural magazines as well as some significant articles.
One day he complained, "The censors watch us like hawks."
In an irritated and scornful tone, she replied, "You haven't seen anything yet! To its credit, our journal is deemed 'subversive' by the ruling circles."
Smiling, Ahmad said, "Naturally you remember the editorials Mr. Adli Karim wrote before the war."
"During the reign of Ali Mahir, our magazine was closed down once because of an essay commemorating the Urabi rebellion. In it the editor had accused the Khedive Tawfiq of treachery."
One day, in the midst of a conversation on another topic, she asked, "Why did you choose journalism?"
He reflected a little. How much of his soul should he bare to this girl, who, compared to the other women he knew, was one of a kind?
"I didn't go to the University to obtain a government job. I had ideas I wanted to express in print. What better vehicle could there be for that than journalism?"
Her interest in his response delighted him. She countered, "I didn't go to the University. Or, more precisely, I didn't have the opportunity."
He was also enthralled by her candor, which by itself sufficed to show how different she was from other girls. She went on: "I'm a graduate of Mr. Adli Karim's school, an institution no less distinguished than the University. I've studied with him since I finished my baccalaureate. Frankly, I think you've given a good definition for journalism, or the kind of journalism we're engaged in. Yet so far you have expressed your thoughts by relying on others, I mean by translating. Haven't you thought of selecting a genre that suits you?
He was silent for a time, groping for an answer, as if he had not understood her words. Then he asked, "What do you mean?"
"Essays, poetry, short stories, plays?"
"I don't know. The essay comes to mind first."
In a tone that said more than her words did, she observed, "Yes, but in view of the political situation, it's no longer an easy endeavor. Freethinkers are forced to speak their mind in clandestine publications. An essay is blunt and direct. Therefore it is dangerous, especially when eyes are scrutinizing us. The short story is more devious and thus harder to restrict. It's a cunning art, which has become such a prevalent form it will soon wrest leadership from all the others. Don't you see that there is not a single prominent literary figure who hasn't tried to make a name for himself in this genre, if only by publishing one short story?"
"Yes, I've read most of these works. Haven't you read some of the stories Mr. Riyad Qaldas publishes in al-Fikr magazine?"
"He's one of many and not the best."
"Perhaps not. My uncle Kamal Ahmad Abd al-Jawad, who writes for that same magazine, drew my attention to his stories."
Smiling, she asked, "He's your uncle? I've frequently read him, but…"
"Yes?"
"No offense, but he's a writer who rambles through the wilderness of metaphysics."
A bit anxiously he asked, "Don't you like him?"
"Liking is something else. He writes a good deal about ancient notions like the spirit, the absolute, and the theory of knowledge. That's lovely, but such topics provide intellectual entertainment and mental enrichment without leading anywhere. Writing should be an instrument with a clearly defined purpose. Its ultimate goal should be the development of this world and man's ascent up the ladder of progress and liberation. The human race is engaged in a constant struggle. A writer truly worthy of the name must be at the head of the freedom fighters. Let's leave talk about mysterious forces like elan vital to Bergson."