Read Online Morning and Evening Talk by Naguib Mahfouz - Free Book Online
Authors: Naguib Mahfouz
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she said.
He was overjoyed, but she made it a condition that he allow her to continue her art, which he contemplated worriedly before saying, “Let’s remain as we are in that case.”
“No. Then we can both go our own ways,” she snapped back.
He acquiesced in spite of himself and married her. His brother, Adham, was the first to know, his father the second. When the news reached Samiha she raised a storm that brought the servants running and prompted inquiries from the neighbors. Husni moved to an apartment his wife owned on Pyramids Road.
“I haven’t given up my art because the cinema has started to take notice of me,” she said to him.
However, it became clear that the path to recognition was not easy and required him to set up a production company for his wife’s genius. He knew his father no longer had the confidence in him that he used to, so asked for his share of the business capital to dedicate to the new venture. His father granted the wish, saying, “Keep it between you and me.” With this, Husni cut himself off from his mother, and indeed the whole family. He produced two films for Agiba, neither of which brought her fame. Reports of a suspicious relationship between her and a supporting actor called Rashad al-Gamil reached his ears. He watched the two until he caught them in a furnished apartment in Agouza. He beat her to death and was charged and sentenced to fifteen years. Relatives learned his news from the newspapers and, before that, from gossip. More than one of them exclaimed, “Lord have pity! Son of Hazim, the son of Surur Effendi, God have mercy on him.”
Hakim Hussein Qabil
Anyone who looked into his wide brown eyes was dazzled by their beautiful shape and bright shine, and his large head andthick hair lent him dignity. He was the third child of Amr Effendi’s daughter Samira and her husband, Hussein Qabil, the antique dealer in Khan al-Khalili. Ibn Khaldun Street, where his family lived in an apartment block, was the amphitheater of his childhood and youth, al-Zahir Baybars Garden his playground. As well as being intelligent and a high achiever, he was fond of gambling from an early age, starting with dominoes and backgammon and later gravitating to poker and rummy. He was known for his close friendship with one of the neighbors. They were together through primary and secondary school, then Hakim went to the faculty of commerce, the other to the war college. Hakim knew all his mother’s relatives—the families of Amr, Surur, al-Murakibi, and Dawud—just as he did his father’s. His uncles Amer and Hamid were baffled by his political stance, which rejected, or seemed to reject, the situation in its entirety.
“I think the treaty is a great achievement for the Wafd!” Hamid said to him.
“It has several negatives. I don’t believe in political parties,” he replied.
“The Muslim Brothers buy and sell religion and Misr al-Fatah are Fascist agents!”
“Not all of them.”
“So what do you believe in?”
“Nothing.”
Amer gave a light-hearted laugh. “A dissonant chord in the family,” said Hamid.
Hakim graduated during the Second World War, not long after his father died, and was appointed to the tax office. It was not long before he fell in love with a colleague called Saniya Karam, married her, and moved with her to an apartment in West Abbasiya. She gave birth to Hussein and Amr and life looked set to follow the familiar routine from start to finish. Then came the July Revolution and his best friend was one of itsstar players. The future hatched new dimensions no one would have imagined. At an opportune moment he was appointed manager of the distributions office at one of the major newspapers and his salary leaped from the tens to the hundreds with a stroke of the pen. His position sent ripples through the family tree from bottom to top. Samira’s family cried for joy and Amr’s family were pleased in spite of their shattered Wafdist dreams. As for the
He was overjoyed, but she made it a condition that he allow her to continue her art, which he contemplated worriedly before saying, “Let’s remain as we are in that case.”
“No. Then we can both go our own ways,” she snapped back.
He acquiesced in spite of himself and married her. His brother, Adham, was the first to know, his father the second. When the news reached Samiha she raised a storm that brought the servants running and prompted inquiries from the neighbors. Husni moved to an apartment his wife owned on Pyramids Road.
“I haven’t given up my art because the cinema has started to take notice of me,” she said to him.
However, it became clear that the path to recognition was not easy and required him to set up a production company for his wife’s genius. He knew his father no longer had the confidence in him that he used to, so asked for his share of the business capital to dedicate to the new venture. His father granted the wish, saying, “Keep it between you and me.” With this, Husni cut himself off from his mother, and indeed the whole family. He produced two films for Agiba, neither of which brought her fame. Reports of a suspicious relationship between her and a supporting actor called Rashad al-Gamil reached his ears. He watched the two until he caught them in a furnished apartment in Agouza. He beat her to death and was charged and sentenced to fifteen years. Relatives learned his news from the newspapers and, before that, from gossip. More than one of them exclaimed, “Lord have pity! Son of Hazim, the son of Surur Effendi, God have mercy on him.”
Hakim Hussein Qabil
Anyone who looked into his wide brown eyes was dazzled by their beautiful shape and bright shine, and his large head andthick hair lent him dignity. He was the third child of Amr Effendi’s daughter Samira and her husband, Hussein Qabil, the antique dealer in Khan al-Khalili. Ibn Khaldun Street, where his family lived in an apartment block, was the amphitheater of his childhood and youth, al-Zahir Baybars Garden his playground. As well as being intelligent and a high achiever, he was fond of gambling from an early age, starting with dominoes and backgammon and later gravitating to poker and rummy. He was known for his close friendship with one of the neighbors. They were together through primary and secondary school, then Hakim went to the faculty of commerce, the other to the war college. Hakim knew all his mother’s relatives—the families of Amr, Surur, al-Murakibi, and Dawud—just as he did his father’s. His uncles Amer and Hamid were baffled by his political stance, which rejected, or seemed to reject, the situation in its entirety.
“I think the treaty is a great achievement for the Wafd!” Hamid said to him.
“It has several negatives. I don’t believe in political parties,” he replied.
“The Muslim Brothers buy and sell religion and Misr al-Fatah are Fascist agents!”
“Not all of them.”
“So what do you believe in?”
“Nothing.”
Amer gave a light-hearted laugh. “A dissonant chord in the family,” said Hamid.
Hakim graduated during the Second World War, not long after his father died, and was appointed to the tax office. It was not long before he fell in love with a colleague called Saniya Karam, married her, and moved with her to an apartment in West Abbasiya. She gave birth to Hussein and Amr and life looked set to follow the familiar routine from start to finish. Then came the July Revolution and his best friend was one of itsstar players. The future hatched new dimensions no one would have imagined. At an opportune moment he was appointed manager of the distributions office at one of the major newspapers and his salary leaped from the tens to the hundreds with a stroke of the pen. His position sent ripples through the family tree from bottom to top. Samira’s family cried for joy and Amr’s family were pleased in spite of their shattered Wafdist dreams. As for the
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