Voices from the Other World by Naguib Mahfouz Page B

fate was cruelly wrought by hardships and woes, for while the opulent lived in sin, the peasants went without food. As the wicked dwelt on the land in wanton corruption, disease and pestilence claimed the wretched and the weak. The men in charge of the district—chief among them the magistrate Sumer, the constable Ram, and the physician Toheb—set to work on reform. Their fierce campaign to suppress crime and depravity became the model far and wide for righteousness, integrity, and moral resolve.
    During one of the generations that passed in this district, there came a stranger—an elderly gentleman, clean-shaven on both his head and his face (as was the custom for Egyptian priests), tall and gauntly built. His gaze bore a sharp expression, mocking his advanced age, radiating the light of intelligence and wisdom. He truly was peculiar, for no sooner would he set foot in a land than its people would begin to ask in amazement, “Who is this man? . . . What country drove him out? . . . What does he want? . . . And how does he roam the earth at a time when he really should rest in pious peace of mind while awaiting his crossing to the world of Osiris?”
    His eccentric character knew no bounds. He left behind him a vortex of disorder and a whorl of uproar wherever he settled down—and wherever he headed. He prowled the markets and the temples, inviting himself to parties without knowing their hosts, injecting himself into what did not concern him. He would talk to husbands about their wives and to wives about their husbands, to fathers about their sons and to sons about their fathers, engaging in argument with the lords and the nobles. He also spoke with the servants and the slaves, leaving in his wake a deep and powerful influence that stirred defiant revolt in their souls, around which disputation and mutual hostility grew ever stronger.
    The stranger’s way of life aroused the fears of Ram, the protector of order. He followed him around like his shadow, observing him closely, filled with suspicion about his intentions. At length he seized him and led him to the magistrate, so that he could examine his astounding case. Sumer the magistrate was a man of advanced years and vast experience: he had spent four decades of his magnificent life in heroic struggle under the banners of Truth and Justice. He had personally dispatched hundreds of rebels to their proper fate, and filled the prisons with thousands of evildoers and criminals, as he labored faithfully and sincerely to cleanse the district of the enemies of peace and tranquility.
    But when this odd man came before him, Sumer felt astonished and confused. He wondered to himself what this used-up old coot could have done—then, casting an appraising glance upon him, he asked in his weighty voice, “What, venerable sir, is your name?”
    The man did not answer. Instead, he remained silent, shaking his head as though he did not wish to speak—or did not know what to say.
    The judge, annoyed by his unreasonable silence, demanded harshly, “Why don’t you answer? State your name!”
    The man replied in a murmur, a faint, ambiguous smile upon his lips, “I do not know it, sire.”
    The magistrate’s anger redoubled, and he demanded scoldingly, “Do you really not know your name?”
    â€œYes, sire—I have forgotten it.”
    â€œDo you really claim that you have forgotten your own name—the name that people call you?”
    â€œNo one uses any name for me: my family and close friends have all passed away. I have wandered in this world for a very long time, but no one addresses me by name. No human being calls out to me, and—with my head overflowing with ideas and dreams—I have forgotten it.”
    Sumer berated the old man for his feebleminded senility —then turned away from him in despair to the protector of order. “What drove you to bring this man to my courtroom?” he