him in marriage in Helmiyya, and Sarrafiyya had danced before them, the house under her direction had enjoyed an ordered cleanliness, with its fragrant smell of incense. What was the point of Ramadan and the feasts without her?
The funeral had been lacking generation upon generation of his students. Did nobody remember him anymore?
This had not been so with the friends who had departed long ago. But though they were gone, it seemed he saw every one of them as on the day they had been brought together at Mustafa Kamil’s funeral.
While the old man had never known any serious illness, his poor wife had been afflicted by dengue fever, typhoid, and bouts of influenza, and she had finally died from a heart condition, leaving him as attached to life as he had always been. He went to a window and saw a large garden in the middle of a rectangle of buildings, instead of the large mosque he used to be able to see from the window of his room in Munira’s house. A warm dry breeze blew against him. He enjoyed the restful silence,though it accentuated his loneliness. The day the British had occupied Cairo, he had got hold of a stray horse, but his father, fearing the consequences, had beaten him and had taken the horse by night to the Cairo Canal, where he had let it loose. The city had been shaking with fear and sorrow.
Returning to where he had been sitting, he saw a small cat by the foot of the chair. It was pure white, with a thick coat and a black patch on its forehead. In the look in its gray eyes he saw a willingness to make friends. Zahia had always had a fondness for cats. Liking the look of it, he followed it with his eyes as it moved around the chair leg. He stroked its back, and it rubbed itself against his foot, making him smile. He passed his hand along its back, and it answered the palm of his hand. Its back throbbed, rising and falling. He took this as a sign of affection and once again smiled, revealing teeth with moss-colored roots, while the cat arched with pleasure. He shifted to his left slightly to give it room, but Tutu’s voice, tremulous with the effort of running, blared out as he rushed into the room. “My cat!”
Resigned, the old man said, “Here’s your cat,” and asked him affectionately about its name.
“Nargis,” answered the boy gruffly, as he seized hold of it roughly by the scruff of the neck and ran off outside with it, while the old man pleaded, “Gently…gently….”
Suddenly he jumped. What in heaven’s name had happened? It seemed that something had struck him on the forehead. He frowned with annoyance, and Tutu’s laughter rang out from the doorway as he picked up the small ball that had bounced back to him. The old man put his hand up to feel his glasses and make sure they were all right, then he called Mubarka, who hurried along and carried off the child before he could throw the ball again.
“This dear child is tiresome and cruel. That poor unfortunate cat!”
Five years ago his daughter Samira had lost a child of Tutu’s age, and he had consoled her with tears. “It is I who should have died….” It had seemed to him, as he sat at the funeral, that all eyes were contemplating his old age in amazement, pointing out the glaring contradiction between his own survival and the passing away of his grandson at the age of three. That night he had said to Zahia, “A long life is a curse.” But how gentle she was as she said to him, “We’d all do anything for you—you’re a bringer of good luck and fortune.”
Late in the afternoon, on his return from work, Sabir said to his father, “Seeing that you don’t want to go with us to the club, choose yourself some café in Heliopolis. We have fine cafés quite near the house.”
While choosing a café nearby was perhaps the sensible thing to do, he liked the Mattatia. It had been his favorite place for a very long time. He made his way to the bus stop, walking at his own slow pace but with his body held erect. He used a
The funeral had been lacking generation upon generation of his students. Did nobody remember him anymore?
This had not been so with the friends who had departed long ago. But though they were gone, it seemed he saw every one of them as on the day they had been brought together at Mustafa Kamil’s funeral.
While the old man had never known any serious illness, his poor wife had been afflicted by dengue fever, typhoid, and bouts of influenza, and she had finally died from a heart condition, leaving him as attached to life as he had always been. He went to a window and saw a large garden in the middle of a rectangle of buildings, instead of the large mosque he used to be able to see from the window of his room in Munira’s house. A warm dry breeze blew against him. He enjoyed the restful silence,though it accentuated his loneliness. The day the British had occupied Cairo, he had got hold of a stray horse, but his father, fearing the consequences, had beaten him and had taken the horse by night to the Cairo Canal, where he had let it loose. The city had been shaking with fear and sorrow.
Returning to where he had been sitting, he saw a small cat by the foot of the chair. It was pure white, with a thick coat and a black patch on its forehead. In the look in its gray eyes he saw a willingness to make friends. Zahia had always had a fondness for cats. Liking the look of it, he followed it with his eyes as it moved around the chair leg. He stroked its back, and it rubbed itself against his foot, making him smile. He passed his hand along its back, and it answered the palm of his hand. Its back throbbed, rising and falling. He took this as a sign of affection and once again smiled, revealing teeth with moss-colored roots, while the cat arched with pleasure. He shifted to his left slightly to give it room, but Tutu’s voice, tremulous with the effort of running, blared out as he rushed into the room. “My cat!”
Resigned, the old man said, “Here’s your cat,” and asked him affectionately about its name.
“Nargis,” answered the boy gruffly, as he seized hold of it roughly by the scruff of the neck and ran off outside with it, while the old man pleaded, “Gently…gently….”
Suddenly he jumped. What in heaven’s name had happened? It seemed that something had struck him on the forehead. He frowned with annoyance, and Tutu’s laughter rang out from the doorway as he picked up the small ball that had bounced back to him. The old man put his hand up to feel his glasses and make sure they were all right, then he called Mubarka, who hurried along and carried off the child before he could throw the ball again.
“This dear child is tiresome and cruel. That poor unfortunate cat!”
Five years ago his daughter Samira had lost a child of Tutu’s age, and he had consoled her with tears. “It is I who should have died….” It had seemed to him, as he sat at the funeral, that all eyes were contemplating his old age in amazement, pointing out the glaring contradiction between his own survival and the passing away of his grandson at the age of three. That night he had said to Zahia, “A long life is a curse.” But how gentle she was as she said to him, “We’d all do anything for you—you’re a bringer of good luck and fortune.”
Late in the afternoon, on his return from work, Sabir said to his father, “Seeing that you don’t want to go with us to the club, choose yourself some café in Heliopolis. We have fine cafés quite near the house.”
While choosing a café nearby was perhaps the sensible thing to do, he liked the Mattatia. It had been his favorite place for a very long time. He made his way to the bus stop, walking at his own slow pace but with his body held erect. He used a
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