Karnak Café by Naguib Mahfouz Page A

different.”
    â€œWe’re all of us both criminals and victims,” he repeated. “Anyone who can’t understand that is incapable of understanding anything.”
    At this point the young man came back and handed him the bag of medicines. He pointed to one of the medicines on the prescription. “This one’s not available on the market.”
    Khalid stood up. “Terrific!” he said. “The disease exists, but the medicine for it isn’t available.” He was about to leave. “You may all be wondering,” he said looking at us all, “what’s been happening to this particular man. What’s his story? Well, you’ll find the answer in these prosaic words:
    Innocence in the village
,
Nationalism in the city
,
Revolution in the darkness
,
A chair radiating limitless power
,
A magic eye revealing the truth
,
A living member dying
,
An unseen microbe pulsating with life.”
    And, with a final “Good-bye,” he was gone.
    Behind him he left a scene of total confusion. Some people assumed he had been babbling, others that he was actually poking fun at us all, still others that he had been trying to defend himself. He had said that the start had been all innocence, and tyrannical forces had corrupted him. But what was the reference to the “magic eye,” “a living member dying,” and “an unseen microbe pulsating with life”?
    A few months later we were all astonished when he showed up again, just like the first time. Why had he come back, we asked ourselves? Why didn’t he find somewhere else to wait for his medicine? Did he really want to make his peace with us? Or was there some hidden force pushing him in our direction?
    â€œMay I wish you all a very good evening?” he said as he sat down. He looked round. “When God wills that my health improves,” he said, “I intend to join your group here.”
    Munir Ahmad, one of the younger generation who had only joined us recently, asked him why he hadn’t explained his little ‘prose poem’ to us.
    â€œIt’s self-evident,” he replied. “There’s no need for explanation. In any case, I hate having to go over all that stuff again!”
    â€œBut, Khalid Bey,” chimed in Qurunfula, “I have to tell you that your presence here is very upsetting to all of us.”
    â€œNonsense,” he replied. “There’s nothing like suffering to bring people together.”
    After a moment’s silence, he went on, “I promise you I’ll join your little community at the earliest opportunity.” He gave a little laugh. “What are you all talking about these days?”
    We all thought it best to say nothing.
    â€œI’m well aware of what people are saying,” he said. “It’s being repeated everywhere. So allow me to clarify for you all the factors in the equation.” He adjusted his position on the chair and then continued.
    â€œIn our country there are the religious types. Their interest is in seeing religion dominate every aspect of life—philosophy, politics, morality, and economics. They are refusing to surrender or negotiate with the enemy. For them a peaceful solution is only agreeable if it achieves exactly the same result as outright victory. They’re calling for a struggle, but what’s that supposed to mean? There they all are for you to see, dreaming of prodigious feats of valor performed by the fedayeen or of miracles descending from heaven. They may be willing to accept weapons from the Russians, but all the while they’re actually cursing the Russians and insisting that there be no strings attached. Maybe they would prefer an honorable, peaceful solution implemented through American intervention since that would put a final end to our relationship with Communist Russia.
    â€œAnd then there are the Rightists of a particular stripe,” he continued. “They want an