Adrift on the Nile

He recalled how good he was at Arabic, as good as the Head of Department; witness the man's decision to cut two days' pay from his salary, for no reason except that he had written a blank page. And he remembered also how Layla had said to him once: "You have no heart." One night it was, when all the friends had gone and only Khalid Azzuz and Layla remained on the houseboat. And without any preliminary Anis had grasped her arm and said: "You are mine tonight." Why did it always have to be Khalid? Khalid who inherited you after Ragab left you! And so, for me, only the night is mine. His voice had been raised in anger that night, raised against the dawn prayer. Amm Abduh outside, calling to prayer, you yourself yelling like a madman inside; and Khalid, spreading his hands wide in supplication, and saying: "You've made a scandal of us!"

Layla had laughed at first, and then cried. She had raised a highly philosophical question. For she loved Khalid, and on account of that could not give in to Anis, in spite of their friendship--if she did, she would be a whore. And he had shouted that night that the call to prayer was easier to understand than these riddles!

"Friendship is more important," Layla pleaded now, to clear the air. "Friendship is for life."

"May God grant you a long one, then."

He filled the pipe so that they could smoke together while waiting for the others. She took a greedy puff and coughed for a long time. And he said again what he usually said, that the first pull on the pipe made you cough; it was after that that the pleasure came. And he thought to himself that it was not so strange that the Egyptians had worshipped the Pharaoh; what was extraordinary was that the Pharaoh had believed himself to be a god. . . .

The houseboat shook, more violently this time, and a hubbub of voices came from outside. He glanced toward the doorway concealed by the screen and saw a lively group of companions follow one another in: Ahmad Nasr, Mustafa Rashid, Ali al-Sayyid, and Khalid Azzuz. . . . "Good evening . . . Good evening to you!" Khalid sat down next to Layla; as for Ali al-Sayyid, he threw himself down to the right of Anis, crying: "Come to our aid!" So Anis set about filling the pipe and stacking glowing pieces of charcoal on top, and the water pipe was soon being passed around the circle. "Any news of Ragab?" Mustafa Rashid inquired.

Anis told him that Ragab had telephoned to say that he was in the studio, and that he would come as soon as he had finished work.

A breeze blowing in from the balcony made the coals glow on the brazier. Anis was now as animated as he would become. His broad face suffused with a profound rapture, he announced that whoever it was who had made a magnificent tomb out of human history, a tomb that graced the shelves of every library, had not begrudged them a few moments of pleasure.

Khalid Azzuz looked toward Ali al-Sayyid. "So does the press have any news?" he asked.

Ali indicated Layla with a lift of his chin. "The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is here before you."

"But I heard the most astonishing facts . . ."

"Don't bother our brains with it," Anis said cynically. "Whatever else we get to hear, this world of ours will still be here, the same as ever it was, absolutely nothing happening at all."

Mustafa Rashid cleared his throat. "And what's more," he said, "the world does not concern us any more than we concern it. In any way at all."

Anis agreed. "As long as the pipe is still being passed around, what does it matter to you?"

Khalid regarded him, delighted. "Wisdom," he said, "from the mouth of the intoxicated!"

"Let me tell you what happened to me today with the Director General," Anis continued, and the story of the pen provoked a storm of laughter. "Pens like that are used to sign peace treaties," Ali said finally.

The water pipe continued on its glowing, melodious way. A halo of midges clustered around the neon light. Outside, beyond the balcony, darkness had set in. The Nile had vanished save for a few geometric shapes, some regular, some irregular: the reflections of the streetlights on the opposite bank, and the illuminated windows of the other houseboats. The Director's bald pate loomed, like the hull of an upturned boat, in the embrace of darkness. He must surely be a scion of the Hyksos kings, and one day would return to the desert. . . . The worst thing Anis had to fear was that the evening would come to an end like the youth of Layla Zaydan, like the gray ash encroaching on the heart of the embers. . . .

Who was it who had said that revolutions are plotted by the clever, fought by the brave, and profited from by cowards?

Amm Abduh came and took the pipe away to change the water. Then he brought it back and left again without uttering a word. Khalid Azzuz wiped his gold-rimmed spectacles, declaring his admiration for the old man. Ahmad Nasr broke his customary silence. "A man from the stock of dinosaurs," he said.