obsequies were concluded around midnight, his son Sabir asked him, “What do you intend doing, Father?”
His son’s wife said, “It’s not possible for you to stay on here alone.”
The old man understood what they meant. He complained, “Zahia was everything to me. She was my mind and my hand.”
“My house is yours,” said Sabir, “and if you came to live with us you would bring a blessing to it. Your servant Mubarka will come to look after you.”
Certainly he could not live in this house on his own. Yet despite the kindness shown by his son and his son’s wife, he believed that by moving he would be losing a lot of his freedom and authority. But what was to be done? In his youth and early manhood, he had been a robust person, and he still retained his dignified bearing. How many generations of educators and outstanding personalities had he trained—but what was to be done?
With a dejected air, the man witnessed the liquidation of his home. He saw it being demolished, just as he had seen the death of his wife, and they left nothing intact but his clothes, his bed, his cupboard of books (books he no longer looked at), some bibelots, and pictures of members of the family and of certain great men of literature, politics, and entertainment, like MustafaKamil, Mohammed Farid, al-Muwailhi, Hafiz Ibrahim, and Abd al-Hayy Helmi.
He left his house for Heliopolis in his son’s car. A bedroom had been prepared for him, and the old servant Mubarka got ready to serve him. “We’re all at your beck and call,” his son said.
Munira, Sabir’s wife, gave him a welcoming smile. It showed a kindly disposition, but this was still not his house—that was his overwhelming feeling. He sat in an armchair, exchanging glances with her in an almost embarrassed way. If only his daughter Samira were in Egypt. He would have found a more congenial atmosphere in her house. Tutu appeared in the doorway. He looked from one of his parents to the other, then ran and clung to his father’s legs. He regarded his grandfather, and the old man smiled and said, “Hullo, Tutu. Come here.”
It was only occasionally that Tutu would go with his father to visit his grandfather. The old man loved him very much and did not spare himself in playing with the boy whenever possible, though Tutu was violent in his fun. He used to like to jump on those who were playing with him, and would threaten to scratch their eyes and nose. All too soon the old man would gently avoid him, preferring to love him from afar.
Tutu pointed at his grandfather’s tall tarboosh. “Your head!”
He meant that the old man should take off his tarboosh so that Tutu could see the sloping oblong of orange baldness that had drawn his attention and inquiries from the first time he had seen it. When his wish was not fulfilled, he began pointing at his grandfather’s furrowed face and pitted nose, and went on asking questions despite his father’s attempts to shut him up. The old man told himself that the dear child would not cease to annoy him and that he required protection. But where was Zahia? And his watch, his flyswatter, and his cigarettes—how would he keep them out of the reach of the boy’s prying hands?Tutu tried to get to his grandfather to implement his wishes himself, but his father caught hold of him and called the nurse, who carried him off, screaming in protest.
“When I finish work in the evenings,” said Sabir, “Munira and I go to the club, so why don’t you come with us?”
“Don’t bother yourself about me. Just let things go on as usual.”
Sabir and Munira went off, and the old man welcomed being left on his own so that he could recover. But being alone became more quickly tedious than he had imagined. He cast an indifferent glance at the room and was then enwrapped by loneliness. When would he become accustomed to the new place and to life without Zahia? For forty years he had not seen a day go by without Zahia. Since she was brought to
His son’s wife said, “It’s not possible for you to stay on here alone.”
The old man understood what they meant. He complained, “Zahia was everything to me. She was my mind and my hand.”
“My house is yours,” said Sabir, “and if you came to live with us you would bring a blessing to it. Your servant Mubarka will come to look after you.”
Certainly he could not live in this house on his own. Yet despite the kindness shown by his son and his son’s wife, he believed that by moving he would be losing a lot of his freedom and authority. But what was to be done? In his youth and early manhood, he had been a robust person, and he still retained his dignified bearing. How many generations of educators and outstanding personalities had he trained—but what was to be done?
With a dejected air, the man witnessed the liquidation of his home. He saw it being demolished, just as he had seen the death of his wife, and they left nothing intact but his clothes, his bed, his cupboard of books (books he no longer looked at), some bibelots, and pictures of members of the family and of certain great men of literature, politics, and entertainment, like MustafaKamil, Mohammed Farid, al-Muwailhi, Hafiz Ibrahim, and Abd al-Hayy Helmi.
He left his house for Heliopolis in his son’s car. A bedroom had been prepared for him, and the old servant Mubarka got ready to serve him. “We’re all at your beck and call,” his son said.
Munira, Sabir’s wife, gave him a welcoming smile. It showed a kindly disposition, but this was still not his house—that was his overwhelming feeling. He sat in an armchair, exchanging glances with her in an almost embarrassed way. If only his daughter Samira were in Egypt. He would have found a more congenial atmosphere in her house. Tutu appeared in the doorway. He looked from one of his parents to the other, then ran and clung to his father’s legs. He regarded his grandfather, and the old man smiled and said, “Hullo, Tutu. Come here.”
It was only occasionally that Tutu would go with his father to visit his grandfather. The old man loved him very much and did not spare himself in playing with the boy whenever possible, though Tutu was violent in his fun. He used to like to jump on those who were playing with him, and would threaten to scratch their eyes and nose. All too soon the old man would gently avoid him, preferring to love him from afar.
Tutu pointed at his grandfather’s tall tarboosh. “Your head!”
He meant that the old man should take off his tarboosh so that Tutu could see the sloping oblong of orange baldness that had drawn his attention and inquiries from the first time he had seen it. When his wish was not fulfilled, he began pointing at his grandfather’s furrowed face and pitted nose, and went on asking questions despite his father’s attempts to shut him up. The old man told himself that the dear child would not cease to annoy him and that he required protection. But where was Zahia? And his watch, his flyswatter, and his cigarettes—how would he keep them out of the reach of the boy’s prying hands?Tutu tried to get to his grandfather to implement his wishes himself, but his father caught hold of him and called the nurse, who carried him off, screaming in protest.
“When I finish work in the evenings,” said Sabir, “Munira and I go to the club, so why don’t you come with us?”
“Don’t bother yourself about me. Just let things go on as usual.”
Sabir and Munira went off, and the old man welcomed being left on his own so that he could recover. But being alone became more quickly tedious than he had imagined. He cast an indifferent glance at the room and was then enwrapped by loneliness. When would he become accustomed to the new place and to life without Zahia? For forty years he had not seen a day go by without Zahia. Since she was brought to
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