Karnak Café by Naguib Mahfouz

it.”
    â€œEverything depends on the Arabs being able to work as a unified entity.”
    â€œOn the fifth of June 1967 at least half the Arabs won.”
    â€œStart on the inside, that’s what we have to do.”
    â€œFine! Religion then. Religion’s everything.”
    â€œNo! Communism’s the answer.”
    â€œNo! Democracy is what we need.”
    â€œResponsibility should be taken away from the Arabs altogether.”
    â€œFreedom … freedom!”
    â€œSocialism.”
    â€œLet’s call it democratic socialism.”
    â€œLet’s start off with war. We’ll have time for reforms later.”
    â€œNo, the reforms have to come first, then solutions can be worked out some time in the future.”
    â€œNo, the two must go hand in hand.”
    And so on and so on, ad infinitum.

    One evening a stranger came into the café, leaning on the arm of a young man. He took a seat by the entrance.
    â€œI’ll wait for you here,” he instructed the young man in an imperious tone. “You go and get the medicine. Get a move on!”
    He stayed seated where he was while the young man went away. He was of medium height, with a large, elongatedface, wide, bushy eyebrows, and a pronounced forehead. His eyes were wide and sunken in their sockets. He looked very pale, as though he were either sick or convalescing.
    Immediately Isma‘il was whispering in my ear. “See that man over there by the entrance?” he asked. “Take a good long look at him.”
    The newcomer had, needless to say, already attracted my attention. “What about him?” I asked.
    â€œThat’s Khalid Safwan!” Isma‘il replied in a trembling voice.
    I was stunned. “Khalid Safwan?” I muttered back.
    â€œThe very same and in person.”
    â€œHas he been released then?”
    â€œHe’s served his three-year sentence, but all his money’s been sequestered.”
    My amazement and curiosity both got the better of me, and I started taking sneaking looks in his direction. I felt like cutting him up into pieces so I could finally discover which part of his personality was either missing or present in superabundance.
    From one person to another the news gradually made its way around the café. A profound silence descended on the entire place. Everyone was staring at him. For a while he managed to ignore us all, but it did not take long for him to realize that everyone was staring at him. Once he became aware of us, it was as if he were waking up from a long sleep. Slowly and cautiously he began to look around and stare at us with those sunken eyes of his. He certainly recognized some of the faces in the café very well, Isma‘il and Zaynab, for instance. He was particularly interested in Qurunfula. He stretched his legs out, and his lips formed themselves into something which might well have been asmile. Yes indeed, there it was—a smile. I had been afraid that he would panic, but no; he showed absolutely no sign of fear whatsoever. Instead what we all heard was a small voice say “Hello!”
    He stared at the faces he knew so well. “Perhaps the two broken fragments will come together again,” he said. He closed his eyes for a moment. “My, my,” he went on as though talking to himself, “the world’s certainly changed. I know this café, and now here we all are, sitting together in a single place accompanied by the direst of memories.”
    It was Qurunfula who responded, even though we had not heard a word out of her for ages. “Yes indeed,” she said, “the direst of memories.”
    â€œThese days,” he told her, “you don’t own exclusive rights to sorrow.” His voice changed as he went on, “We’re all of us simultaneously criminals and victims.”
    â€œNo,” she replied, “the criminal’s one kind of person, and the victim’s entirely