Adrift on the Nile

None of this surprised Samara. She began to talk about the possibility of recalling this same ardor, but in a more contemporary form. The others, however, began to discuss the natural treachery of women, how it banished trust in any one of them . . . She said to Mustafa, who was arguing the most strongly: "You are taking refuge from responsibility in the Absolute."

"Responsibility is the way many people take refuge from the Absolute," he replied cynically.

Chicken and egg. As for me, I stack the coals and fill the pipe and light the fire and send the pipe around; and so I get my fill, willy-nilly, of all their rubbish, and the women laugh and dream of love; and time goes by with amazing speed. And each time the cultured young miss wishes to leave, the magician insists on her staying. In a little while, destruction will befall the gathering. Omar Khayyam, who gave his name to a school of philosophy, now has a hotel called after him where all kinds of fun take place. He told me at our last meeting that if he had lived until now, he would have joined one of the sporting clubs . . .

"Time to go home!"

The men and women left--all except Ragab and Samara.

One thing is sure. They do not know that it is the Nile which has condemned us to ourselves. And that nothing remains of our ancient worship except the cult of the bull god, Apis. And that the real malady is fear of life, not death. And now you will hear the oft-repeated conversation, proceeding in time-honored fashion:

"Would it not be better, my dear, if we took pleasure in love?"

"A nice idea!"

"So . . . ?"

"I told you, _my_ dear, that I am serious!"

"Bourgeois mentality, I think."

"Serious, s-e-r-i-o-u-s."

"Then how on earth will you ever give of yourself?"

And when she did not reply he continued: "Only in marriage, for example?"

"Say, real love."

"So come, then . . ."

"Are _you_ serious?" she asked.

"I never joke," he replied.

"What about Sana?"

"You know nothing about the mad psychology of puberty."

"I do know some things, you know."

"Would you surrender to me if I promised to be serious too?"

"You are quite charming!"

Now he is bringing his face closer to hers. The old scene will be repeated. And now he is putting his lips to hers. She did not resist, but neither did she respond. He gave her a cold and mocking stare. The knight's ardor waned, and he retreated. The ancient Persian occupation failed this way. Through the passive resistance, that is, of the Pharaonic Egyptians.

Ragab smiled. "Let's stroll in the garden, then," he said.

"But it's so late . . ."

"There's no such thing as time on this houseboat."

The room was empty now. No, it was not empty; there was still the debris of the evening there, and the library and the screen and the refrigerator and the telephone and the neon light and the blue lamp, and two armchairs and the sky-blue carpet with a pink pattern; and also the recumbent figure of an atom-age man. As for those two, they are strolling in the garden, and the dewy grass will cool their heat, and their whispers will linger in the leaves of violet and jasmine. And they could well be dancing, now, to the song of the crickets.

Amm Abduh came to perform his final task. Anis watched him for a while, and then said: "If you found a girl . . ."

"Oh!"

"Before or after washing for the prayer. If you don't, woe betide you."

"One of the men who prayed every dawn prayer with us has died. A good man."

"God spare you. I think you will probably bury us all."

The old man laughed as he took away the brass tray.

Anis' eyes fell on a large white handbag on the mattress where Samara had been sitting. It seemed to him that the bag had a personality; that by some cunning sorcery it was influencing him . . . yes, he was aware of a violent urge to commit a dreadful deed. He stretched out his hand to the bag and opened it.

He saw all the things one would expect, but they seemed to scream of unfamiliarity. He was overwhelmed by the odor of purity. A handkerchief, a small navy-blue bottle, a comb with a silver handle. And a purse, and a pocket notebook. He opened the purse. There were several bank notes in it. He decided to take fifty piasters to give to the girl Amm Abduh would bring--what a delightful idea. Then another, matchless notion occurred, one uniquely capable of stirring up all kinds of mischief: he took the notebook and slid it into his pocket. Then he closed the bag, and began to shake with laughter.

He would do a little surgery again. The operation he had failed at so many years ago. Open up a heart that was closed to him. His youth would be renewed. His prime would come again. The girl would say everything which occurred to the mind and everything which did not. And then she would wonder how one primeval protozoan could contain all these wonders. And she would ask me when it was that I was a volcano before the layers of dead ash settled over me. And I do not know the answer . . .