The Beggar, the Thief and the Dogs, Autumn Quail by Naguib Mahfouz Page A

lunchtime approached, he took his leave. Buthayna followed him outside, and her usual openness with him was apparent as she said, “Papa, you won’t remain alone…”
    He really didn’t need the empty flat anymore now that he was dreaming of a new kind of solitude. “What do you want?” he asked submissively.
    “I want you to come back.”
    Kissing her cheek, he said, “On condition that you won’t get fed up with me.”
    Her face beaming, she took his arm and walked with him to the outer door.

           
FIFTEEN
    H e returned home, unchanged, feeling neither love nor hatred for Zeinab. But the disappearance of hatred signified the disappearance of Zeinab herself, the victory of his advancing exile over her world.
    “We must accept this ordeal courageously,” he told her.
    And indeed she appeared brave, even deserting his bed. Touched by her attitude, he commended her. “You’re a model of patience.”
    He refrained from his futile night adventures, and was able to find pleasure in his children. But as he watched the Nile flowing incessantly under the balcony, he yearned for the peace of that desert dawn. He spent his nights in his room, reading and meditating, then at daybreak he would return to the balcony, look at the horizon, and wonder: Where is peace? The poems of the Arabs, the Persians, and the Indians are full of secrets, but where is happiness? Why do you feel so depressed within these patient walls, why this uneasy feeling that you’re only a guest, soon to depart?
    “Thank God,” Mustapha said. “Everything is back to normal.”
    He replied angrily, “Nothing is back to normal.”
    Mustapha avoided arguing out of kindness, but Omar would not let up. “I have not returned home; I have not returned to work.”
    “But my dear friend…”
    “And no one knows what changes the next hour has in store.”
    One afternoon the door of his office opened suddenly and a man entered. He was of medium stature, with a shaved head and a large, pale face. His nose and hands were strong, and his amber eyes had a sharp glint. Omar looked at him incredulously for a moment, then stood up and exclaimed in a trembling voice, “Othman Khalil!”
    They embraced and then sat down facing each other on the two chairs in front of the desk. Unable to control his excitement, Omar kept on repeating his greetings, congratulations, and blessings, while Othman smiled, as though he didn’t know what to say. Then there was a short pause and they exchanged glances. Fantasies mingled with memory, but in the depths of his being Omar felt a certain misgiving, a certain premonition of fear. So often he’d envisioned the meeting and had dealt with it in his imagination, yet it had now come as a surprise. He’d lost track of time and everything else recently—he knew that the prison term would not have ended yet, but hadn’t realized that three-quarters of it had already passed. In his present psychological state, he was not ready for the meeting. A man reenters this world from prison; another man leaves this world for an unknown universe.
    “It’s been such a long time.”
    Othman smiled.
    “You were never absent for an hour from our minds. And here you are, determined to live a normal life again.”
    He said in a rich, guttural voice, “You haven’t changed in appearance, but your health is not up to par.”
    Omar was pleased that he’d noticed. “Yes, I’ve suffered a strange crisis. But, please, let’s not talk about me. I want to listen to what you have to say.”
    Othman waited until the servant had brought in a Coca-Cola and a coffee, then said, “Years and years have passed. The day is as detestable as the year; the year as trivial as the day. But I’m not going to reminisce about prison life.”
    “I understand, I’m sorry…but when did you get out?”
    “Two weeks ago.”
    “Why haven’t you come before now?”
    “I went straight to the village, where I came down with influenza. When I