Adrift on the Nile

"Oh, I think it won't be long before the theater of the irrational, known generally as the absurd, will be founded here," said Mustafa.

"But the absurd has existed among us in abundance, even before it became an art," said Ragab. "Your colleague Ali al-Sayyid is known for his absurd dreams, and Mustafa Rashid strives after the absurd in its guise of Absolute. And our master of ceremonies here--his whole life, since he cut himself off from the world some twenty years ago, is absurd."

Samara laughed aloud, throwing off her gravity. "I am really a wisewoman, then!" she said. "My heart told me that I would find wonderful and interesting things among you!"

"Was it your heart that told you," wondered Ragab, "or Ali's tattle?"

"He said nothing but good!"

"But our houseboat is not unique, surely?"

"Perhaps not, but the more people there are, the fewer who can live in friendship."

"I never imagined that I would hear a journalist say that!"

"People generally present the same face to us as they do to the camera."

"Have we not met you in a sincere and guileless way?" said Khalid. "When will you give to us in kind?"

She laughed. "Consider that I have. Or give me a little time."

Anis piled the brazier with charcoal and carried it to the threshold of the balcony, where it was exposed to the breeze. He waited. The patches of heat grew gradually larger until the black charcoal had turned a soft, deep, glowing, crumbling red. Dozens of small tongues of flame darted up, branded with evening glow, and began to spread so that they joined into a dancing wave, pure and transparent, crowned at the tips with a spectral blue. Then the charcoal crackled, and swarms of spark clusters flew up. Female voices screamed, and he returned the brazier to its place. He acknowledged to himself his unlimited wonder at fire. It was more beautiful than roses or green grass or violet dawn; how could it conceal within its heart such a great destructive power? If you feel inclined, you should tell them the story of the person who discovered fire. That old friend who had a nose like Ali's, and Ragab's charisma, and the giant stature of Amm Abduh . . . Where had that curious notion gone? He had been about to toss it into the discussion when he was carrying the brazier out to the balcony . . .

"I am a lawyer," Mustafa was saying. "And lawyers by their nature think the worst. I can almost imagine what is going through your head about us now!"

"There is nothing like that in my head!"

"Your articles pour forth bitter criticism of nihilism, and we could be considered--in the eyes of some--nihilism itself!"

"No, no," she replied. "One cannot judge people on what they do in their free time."

Ragab laughed. "Better to say "free lifetimes"!"

"Don't remind me that I'm a stranger to you," Samara said to him.

"It is bad manners to talk like this about ourselves!" Ahmad said. "We should really be finding out about you."

"I am not a mystery!" she said.

"The writer's articles can generally be counted on to reveal the writer," said Ali.

"Like your critical pieces, you mean?" asked Mustafa.

The room resounded with laughter. Even Ali laughed for a long time. Finally he said, his face still full of mirth: "I am one of you, O dissolutes of our time, and whoever is like his friends has done no wrong. But unfortunately this girl is sincere."

"Everyone is writing about socialism," remarked Khalid, "while most writers dream of acquiring a fortune, and of nights full of dazzling society."

"Do you discuss these matters a great deal?" Samara asked.

"No, but we are forced to if someone alludes to the way we live."

Anis called Amm Abduh. The huge old man came in and took the pipe out through the side door, and then brought it back after changing the water.

Samara's eyes were drawn to him all the while he was in the room. After he had gone, she murmured: "What a fascinating giant of a man!"

Ali remembered that Amm Abduh was the only person whom he had not introduced to Samara. "He is a giant," he said. "But he hardly utters a word. He does everything, but he rarely speaks. It often seems to us that he lives in an eternal present, but we cannot be sure. The most marvelous thing about him is a that any description you care to give of him proves to be true; he is strong and weak, there and not there; he is the prayer leader at the neighboring mosque and a pimp!"

Samara laughed for a long time. "Honestly," she said, "I adored him at first sight!"

"When will it be our turn!" said Ragab without thinking.