Yixinyuan. The Third of the Three Great Classics of Cairo

Author: (Egypt) Mahfouz, translated by Chen Zhongyao and others
Translator: Chen Zhongyao, Lu Yingying
Country:
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2003-05-01
Features: She walked silently in front, he followed cautiously behind, arriving at the hallway between the first and second floors. The girl stood against the wall, and he stood before her, arms outstretched to embrace her. She habitually resisted for a moment before quickly succumbing to his embrace.
"Darling,"
"I've been waiting for you by the window. Mother is busy preparing food for the Festival of the Wind."
"Festival greetings. Let me first inhale the fresh air on your lips."
Their lips pressed tightly together, kissing hungrily for a long time. Then she asked, "Where did you go?"
He seemed to quickly recall the Islamic political class but replied, "I was at a café with some friends."
"It's less than a month until the exam, and you're still going to the café?" Her tone was slightly displeased.
"I know my own business. You misunderstood me. Let me kiss you again as a punishment for your misunderstanding."
"Don't shout. Have you forgotten where we are?"
"We're in our own home, in our own room. This staircase is our room?"
"This afternoon, when I went to my aunt's house, I looked up and tried to see you by the window. Suddenly, I saw your mother peering into the alley. Our gazes met, and I was terrified."
"What are you afraid of?"
"I wanted her to know who I was looking for. She saw my secret."
"You mean our secret—the secret that binds us together. Aren't we like one person now?"
With intense desire, he held her tightly in his arms. At the same time, he felt himself helplessly evading the faint opposition from his inner self. A blazing fire burned within him, and a force that could melt both of them controlled him.
A sigh broke the silence, followed by rapid breathing. At last, he felt that whether it was him or her, darkness had merged them as one.
After a moment, he heard her ask in a gentle yet shy voice, "Will we meet tomorrow?"
He struggled to hide his displeasure and replied, "Yes, of course. You'll find out the time."
"Now, tell me."
"I still haven't decided how to arrange tomorrow."
His frustration deepened.
"Why?"
"Just go in peace. I heard someone coming!"
"No, there's no sound."
"We can't let anyone see us together."
He stroked her shoulder as if touching a piece of rag, then broke free from her embrace and hurried upstairs.
His parents were sitting in the living room listening to the radio. The study door was closed, revealing a light, indicating that Ahmed was studying. After saying goodnight to his parents, he entered his bedroom to change.
He went to the bathroom to take a shower and perform ablutions, then returned to his room to study. After the prayer, he sat cross-legged on his prayer rug, lost in thought.
His eyes reflected a melancholic gaze, and his heart was also heavy, longing to burst into tears.
He prayed to God to expel the demon blocking his path and help him resist external temptations.
The demon blocking his path took the form of the girl, stirring an irresistible desire within his blood.
When his reason said "no," his heart said "yes," and it was always like this. Then, the terrifying struggle ended in his failure and regret.
Every day was a test, each one as hellish as the last. When would this torment end?
His spirit was on the verge of collapse, like a tower built in the air.
A person trapped in a mud could not settle, but perhaps remorse could bring him back the lost time.
Yasin could not help but appear restless. For a long time, he pretended not to care about anything—promotion, salary, or even the government itself. Not only in front of colleagues but also before his own heart, he showed indifference.
Administrative Level 6—even if he were to be promoted—would only increase his salary by two pounds!
How many times had Yasin lost such opportunities.
People said that upon reaching Level 6 and passing the review, he could become a section chief, but when had Yasin cared about such a minor position?
But this time, he was truly restless, especially after the section head, Mr. Muhammad Hassan—also known as Radwan's mother, Zainab's current husband—was summoned to see the deputy minister.
Among the staff of the archives department, rumors spread that the deputy minister had called the section head as a final opportunity to hear the opinions of his subordinates before signing the promotion list.
Muhammad Hassan, the man who had taken over as Zainab's husband, was his mortal enemy!
If it weren't for Mr. Muhammad Aft, he would have beaten him flat!
Would someone like him say good things about him?
Taking advantage of the section head's office being empty, he ran in and made a phone call. This was the third time he had called the Law School today, looking for Radwan Yasin.
"Hello, Radwan? This is your father."
"Hello, Dad. Everything is fine."
The son's voice sounded confident, as if he were helping his father pull strings.
"Has the promotion list been signed yet?"
"Don't worry, the minister personally recommended you. Many parliamentarians and sheikhs have spoken in your favor. He promised everything would be fine."
"Does this matter need a final confirmation?"
"No, the minister even congratulated me this morning. I tell you, you can rest assured one hundred percent."
"Thank you, son. Goodbye!"
"Goodbye! Dad! Congratulations in advance."
Yasin hung up the phone and left the section head's office.
As soon as he stepped out, he encountered Mr. Ibrahim Fattahla—his colleague and a rival of the same level—holding several files. They greeted each other warily.
At this point, Yasin said, "Mr. Ibrahim, let our competition be like a sports match. Whichever the outcome, accept it gracefully."
"But it must be a fair and transparent competition!"
Mr. Ibrahim Fattahla retorted angrily.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Choosing the promoted must be done for God's sake, not through backdoor connections!"
"Your views are truly strange! In this world, how can one survive without connections? You do your best, I'll do mine. Whoever has luck and fate will be promoted!"
"My seniority is older than yours."
"We're both senior employees. Whether it's one year more or one year less doesn't matter!"
"How many people are born in a year, and how many die?"
"Life and death—everyone has their own fate."
"What about ability?"
"Ability?"
Yasin grew agitated,
"Are we building a bridge or a power plant? What does ability have to do with it! Our job is just copying and writing—what ability is needed? Both of us graduated from elementary school. Besides that, I'm a cultured person."
Mr. Ibrahim Fattahla sneered,
"Cultured? Hello, cultured gentleman! Can you recite a few lines of poetry and think yourself cultured? Drafting a document for the department is as difficult as retaking an elementary school graduation exam. Is that cultured? My situation is simply left to fate."
He talked about the East and the West, but he didn't even know Aida?
Misfortune could come in many forms.
"You've been making trouble for yourself all your life,"
Ismail Latif said innocently again,
"In my opinion, reading too much is the root of your misfortune. Why don't you try living a normal life?"
They had reached the intersection of Imamadin Street and turned into it.
Ahead, a large group of British soldiers blocked the path. They avoided them and walked past.
Ismail Latif complained,
"Let them go to hell. What kind of desire do they have? Heaven, do they really believe it?"
"I think the outcome of this war is already decided,"
Kemal said,
"By next spring at the latest, we'll see."
"Nazism is an inhumane reactionary movement,"
Riad Gerdas said angrily,
"Under its iron heel, the suffering in the world will only increase."
"Never mind!"
Ismail Latif said,
"What matters is that we see the British in the same position as the weak nations they oppress!"
"The Germans are no better than the British."
Kemal replied.
"However, the suffering we endure under the British is almost over. British imperialism is declining, so they still show some humanitarianism. But tomorrow, we'll face a new imperialism—a arrogant, greedy war. What then?"
Kemal laughed, a new meaning in his laugh,
"Let's have two glasses for the dream of a world governed by a just and unified government."
"We definitely need more than two glasses."
They stood in front of a newly opened tavern they had never seen before.
Perhaps it was another "demon tavern," which often appeared overnight during the war.
Kemal glanced inside the tavern and saw a white woman with an Eastern body the place. His legs immediately froze, unable to move a step. More accurately, not only did he freeze but even his two friends stopped in their tracks, following his gaze.
Maria! Could it be anyone but Maria? She was his second wife, their neighbor for decades. She had been gone for so long, yet here she was, in this tavern. They had all thought she had gone with her mother!
"Would you like us to sit in for a bit? If you do, come in. There are only four soldiers inside."
Kemal hesitated but lacked the courage. When he came to his senses, he said,
"No, we won't go in!"
He glanced at the woman again and remembered the days of her mother's final illness.
They continued on their separate paths.
When was the last time he had seen her? At least thirteen or fourteen years ago!
She was a trace of his unforgettable past, his past, his history, his very being—everything was the same.
Ah, the last time he had come to the harem on the way home after her divorce was when she had greeted him.
He still remembered how she had complained to him about her older brother reverting to his old ways of drinking, gambling, and womanizing.
At the time, he hadn't anticipated the consequences of those complaints. He never imagined he would become the owner of this "demon tavern."
She had once been the daughter of Muhammad Radwan, his youthful girlfriend, and dream lover.
In their old home, filled with joy and peace, Maria had been a rose, and Aisha had also been a rose, but time was the enemy of roses.
Perhaps he could find Maria in that joyful home, just as he had found Mrs. Galya.
If that happened, he would be in an impossible situation.
Maria had started her affair with the British and now ended it by serving them.
"Do you know this woman?"
"Know her?"
"How?"
"Oh, taverns are full of such women—old prostitutes, unruly maids, all kinds of them."
"Yes."
"Why didn't you go in? Maybe because of you, she would welcome us."
"She's no longer young or beautiful. We have better places to go."
Unconsciously, he was also aging, around thirty-five.
It felt as if he had already enjoyed all the happiness in life.
He had been born at the wrong time in the past, and now his luck was bad. Compared to the two, he truly didn't know which was worse.
But since he had grown tired of life, what did age matter?
Indeed, death was the enjoyment of life.
What was that sound?