With morose sorrow and some astonishment Ridwan, Abd al-Muni'm, and Ahmad gazed at the weeping men, who quickly dried their tears and fell silent.
Ibrahim Shawkat said, "It will be morning soon. Let's consider what has to be done."
Yasin answered sadly and tersely, "There's nothing novel about this. We've gone through it repeatedly."
Ibrahim Shawkat responded, "The funeral must suit his rank."
Yasin replied with conviction, "That's the least we can do."
Then Ridwan commented, "The street in front of the house isn't wide enough for a funeral tent that can hold all the mourners. Let's put it in Bayt al-Qadi Square instead."
Ibrahim Shawkat remarked, "But it's customary to install the tent in front of the home of the deceased."
Ridwan replied, "That isn't so important, especially since cabinet ministers, senators, and deputies will be among the mourners."
They realized that he was referring to his own acquaintances. Yasin commented indifferently, "So let's erect it there."
Thinking about the part he was to play, Ahmad said, "We won't be able to get the obituary in the morning papers…."
Kamal said, "The evening papers come out at about three p m Let's have the funeral at five."
"So be it. The cemetery's not far, at any rate. There'll be time to have the burial before sunset."
Kamal considered what they were saying with some amazement. At five o'clock the previous day his father had been in bed, listening to the radio. At that time the following day… next to Yasin's two young children and Fahmy. What was left of Fahmy? Life had done nothing to diminish Kamal's childhood desire to look inside his brother's coffin. Had his father really been preparing to say something? What had he wanted to say?
Yasin turned toward Kamal to ask, "Were you there when he died?"
"Yes. It was shortly after you left."
"Did he suffer much?"
"I don't know. Who could say, brother? But it didn't last more than five minutes."
Yasin sighed and then asked, "Didn't he say anything?"
"No. He probably wasn't able to speak."
"Didn't he recite the credo?"
Looking down to hide his tearful expression, Kamal replied, "My mother did that for him."
"May God be compassionate to him."
"Amen."
They were silent for a time until finally Ridwan remarked, "The funeral pavilion must be large, if there's to be room for all the mourners to sit."
Yasin said, "Naturally. We have many friends". Then, looking at Abd al-Muni'm, he added, "And there are all the Muslim Brethren". He sighed and continued: "If his friends had been alive, they would have carried his coffin on their shoulders."
The funeral went off according to their expectations. Abd al-Muni'm had the most friends in attendance, but Ridwan's were higher iti rank. Some of them attracted attention because they were well known to readers of newspapers or magazines. Ridwan was so proud they were there that his pride almost obscured his grief. The people of the district, even those who had not known al-Sayyid Ahmad personally, came to bid farewell to their lifelong neighbor. The only thing missing from the funeral was the deceased man's friends, who had all preceded him to the other world.
At Bs. b al-Nasr, as the funeral cortege made its way to the cemetery, Shaykh Mutawalli Abd al-Samad materialized. Staggering from advanced age, he looked up at the coffin, squinted his eyes, and asked, "Who is that?"
One of the men from the district told him, "Al-Sayyid Ahmad Abd al-Jawad, God rest his soul."
The man's face trembled unsteadily back and forth as a questioning look of bewilderment spread across it. Then he inquired, "Where washe from?"
Shaking his head rather sadly, the other man replied, "From this district. How could you not have known him? Don't you remember al-Sayyid Ahmad Abd al-Jawad?"
But th e shaykh gave no sign of remembering anything and after casting a final glance at the casket proceeded on his way.
153
"Now that my master has left this house, it's no longer the place I called home for more than fifty years. Everyone around me weeps. I receive the unflagging attentions of Khadija, who is my heart filled with sorrow and memories as well as the heart of everyone who has a heart. In fact, she's my daughter, sister, and, at times, my mother. I do most of my crying surreptitiously, when I'm alone, for I have to encourage them to forget. Their grief is hard for me to bear. God forbid that one of them should be tormented by sorrow. When I'm by myself, my only consolation comes from weeping, and I cry till I exhaust my tears. If Umm Hanafi disturbs my tearful solitude, no matter how unobtrusively, I tell her, 'Leave me and my affairs alone, may God have mercy on you.' She complains, 'How can I when you're in this state? I know how you feel. But you're the mistress and a Believer, indeed the mistress of all women Believers. From you we learn forbearance and submission to God's decree.'
"That's a beautiful thought, Umm Hanafi, but how can a grieving heart hope to comprehend it? This world is no longer any concern of mine. I have no further tasks to perform here. Every hour of my day is linked to some memory of my master. He was the pivot of the only life I've ever known. How can I bear to live now that he has departed, leaving nothing behind him? I was the first to suggest changing the furniture in the dear room. What could I do? Their eyes would gaze at his empty bed, and then they would break into tears…. My master is certainly entitled to the tears shed for him, but I can't stand to see them cry. I worry about their tender hearts. I attempt to console them with the same ideas you use on me, Umm Hanafi. I ask them to submit to God and His decree. That's why after the old furniture was taken out I moved into Aisha's room. To keep that room from being abandoned, I transferred the sitting-room furniture and the coffee hour in there. When we gather around the brazier we talk a lot and our conversations are interrupted by tears.
"Nothing preoccupies us so much as getting ready to visit the cemetery, and I myself supervise the preparation of the food we distribute to the poor there. That's just about the only task I don't entrust to Umm Hanafi, to whom I have relinquished so many of my duties… that dear loyal woman who has certainly earned her place in our family. We both prepare this mercy offering. We cry together. We remind each other of the beautiful days. She's always with me, assisting me with her spirit and her memory. Yesterday when the evening celebrations of Ramadan were mentioned, she launched into a description of what my master did during Ramadan from the time he woke up late in the morning until he returned to have breakfast with us before sunrise the next day. For my part, I mentioned how I used to scurry to the latticed balcony to watch the carriage bring him home and to listen to the laughter of the passengers, those men who have departed to God's mercy, one after the other just as our sweet days have departed, along with youth, health, and vigor. O God, grant the children a long life and comfort them with its joys.
"This morning I saw our cat under the bed. She was sniffing around where she had nursed her beloved kittens that I gave away to the neighbors. The sight of her, so sad and bewildered, broke my heart and I cried out from the depths of my soul, 'God grant you patience, Aisha.' Poor dear Aisha…. Her father's death has awakened all the old sorrows, and she weeps for her father, her daughter, her sons, and her husband. How hot tears are…. I, who once found the loss of a child such a bitter experience that I seemed to weep away my heart's blood, am today afflicted with the death, of my master. My life, which he once filled completely, is empty. Of all my duties, the only one left is preparing the mercy offering I give on his behalf or collecting it from Sugar Street or Palace of Desire Alley. This is all I have.