Morning and Evening Talk by Naguib Mahfouz

deprived of her legitimate right to marry. Rashwana’s father, Aziz, had died leaving her nothing to support herself with, and her mother, Ni‘ma, died poor because Ata al-Murakibi’s fortune came to him from the wife he married after Sakina, his first wife and Ni‘ma’s mother, had died. (Sakina was the daughter of the owner of the pantofle shop that Ata inherited—or rather managed on his wife’s behalf—and liquidated when she died.) Rashwana hated the thought of Dananir sacrificing herself for her sake and tried in vain to bring her round to her uncle Mahmud’s generous offer, which his brother, Ahmad, most gladly joined him in. But Dananir refused, saying, “We’ll keep our honor even if it costs us.”
    She did not conceal her abiding criticism of her uncle and therest of the family from her mother. “They worship money and rank and have no honor.”
    “You’re a harsh judge! They are good, God-fearing people,” Rashwana said in dismay.
    “You are good. You judge them generously. There’s your mistake,” Dananir replied gently.
    Rashwana conveyed her anxiety to everybody—her brother Amr, Radia, Nazli Hanem, Fawziya Hanem, and Farida Hanem Husam, Abd al-Azim’s wife. Not one of them endorsed the girl’s pride. They predicted she would end up regretting it when there was no need, while Radia asked herself: Who is the infidel who prohibits women teachers from marrying?
    Rashwana eyed her daughter worriedly, trying to plumb her depths, inquisitive of her thoughts and emotions, of what was hidden in the folds of her peculiar life, which resembled a man’s.
    Whenever Dananir was stressed or complained about a work-related matter, Rashwana interpreted it in terms of some other cause lurking beneath of her irregular, meager life. She watched as her daughter grew fatter day by day, lost her graceful youth and looks, and assumed the marks of seriousness and coarseness. It was as though work had unwittingly transformed her into a man. Rashwana was alone with her brother Surur Effendi in his house on Bayt al-Qadi Square.
    “God bless you, Brother. Why don’t you take Dananir for your son Labib?” she asked.
    “But she doesn’t want to leave you at the mercy of others,” Surur replied evasively.
    “I could convince her if she had the good fortune of finding a groom like your son.”
    “The truth is I don’t really want Labib to marry until Gamila, Bahiga, and Zayna have found husbands. I only have a small salary and his assistance in the girls’ trousseaus is indispensable,” he told her frankly.
    She returned, with a lump in her throat, to ruminate on her worries, which only ever left her at prayer times. She watched and saw her daughter’s youth vanish completely, its place taken by a gloomy picture marked by coarseness and barrenness; no one doubted that it was the specter of a spinster whose life was ruined. Her worries piled up as loved ones died one after the other: Ahmad, Amr, Mahmud, and Surur. Then her heart had to bear disease as well as constant sorrow. She took to her bed reluctantly and spent her nights in agony, aware death was on its way.… The Murakibi and Dawud families came by and Amr and Surur’s families visited regularly. She bequeathed Dananir to every one of them. She said to her daughter as though imparting her final testimony, “Marry at the next opportunity.”
    In her dying hour Dananir rushed to her bed. She propped her mother’s head against her chest and recited what verses she could remember from the Qur’an until the woman breathed her last, leaving Dananir alone in the true sense of the word.

Zaynab Abd al-Halim al-Naggar
    S HE WAS BORN AND GREW UP IN AL -K URDI L ANE in al-Hussein to an Egyptian father called Abd al-Halim al-Naggar, who owned a small carpenter’s shop in the quarter, and a Syrian mother. She married Surur three years after his older brother, Amr, was married. Aziz believed in early marriages and had paid no attention to Surur’s