Read Online The Seventh Heaven by Naguib Mahfouz - Free Book Online Page B

jubilant, Raouf queried, “Is there hope for my acquittal?”
    “Your negligence in the search for knowledge will count against you.”
    “But the circumstances I lived in were so extreme!”
    “That is also true,” said Abu. “But we evaluate the individual according to his struggle against his surroundings.”
    As the pain began to appear in Raouf’s face, Abu told him, “You are a fine young man, but the ascent to the Second Heaven is a formidable feat indeed.”
    “Doesn’t what I have done speak on my behalf?”
    “Everything has been heard,” answered Abu. “The verdict has been issued: you are appointed as a spiritual guide.”
    Raouf greeted the judgment with satisfaction, then Abu added, “More good news: you will be guiding Anous.”
    “The policeman?”
    “Yes, his behavior bodes well for the ultimate result.”
    “Could that be the promised Paradise?”
    Abu grinned as he replied, “There are seven heavens consecrated in service to the people of earth; but the time has not yet come to think about Paradise!”
    “How does one climb from heaven to heaven?”
    “Through the succeeding levels of judgment.”
    Perplexed, Raouf asked, “Shall we be spared further strife in the Seventh Heaven?”
    “That is what customarily is said to give one hope and consolation,” expounded Abu, still smiling, “though there is not one shred of evidence that it is true.”
    Streams of lyrical bliss flowed by, immersing them both in the waves of dripping pale clouds that spread over the endless expanse of verdure below.

The Disturbing Occurrences

1
    I will always remember what I lived through during the horrific events in the al-Khalifa quarter of Cairo. To be sure, they weren’t all horrific. Some were tales told of bags of money delivered to the homes of paupers in the dead of night. Others, though, involved mass poisonings, fires, and worse. Yet the fact each was done with the same modus operandi indicated that one person lurked behind them all. Everyone’s eyes were on the lookout; all guards were on watch, as we ran organized patrols after dark throughout the district.
    “This criminal is crazy—there’s no doubt about that,” I said to my chief.
    “All that matters is we catch him,” he answered sharply.
    As the days of our search rolled on, I was utterly miserable—for we had no results, could find no leads at all—without any halt to the incidents themselves.
    Then a letter came to me, with no signature, and only one line of writing:
    The villain behind the crimes in al-Khalifa is Makram Abd al-Qayyum, who lives in the Paradise Building, Apt. 3
.
    Without hesitation we decided to put this man under observation. But just as quickly we learned he’d vacated his flat two days before. Immediately we launched an inquiry about him in the building. I met the owner, who also resided there.
    “I want to hear everything you know about Makram Abd al-Qayyum, who lived in apartment three,” I told him.
    “He moved out two days ago,” the man replied.
    “I know that—but where did he move to?”
    “Of that, he didn’t inform me.”
    “Maybe you know where he sent the furniture that he’d brought with him?”
    “The apartment’s furnished,” said the landlord. “He just took his bags out to the taxi and left.”
    “Did you recognize the taxi or the driver?”
    “No.”
    “How old would you say he is?”
    “Based on the way he looks and his health, it would be hard to say exactly—but I’d guess he’s in his thirties or forties.”
    “What does he do for a living?”
    “He’s from the upper class. Yet he’s very busy. He leftthe building early each morning, returning at nightfall. Still, I never kept track of his movements except when my own happened to cross them.”
    “And his family?”
    “He was alone. No one came to see him, so far as I know.”
    “And how were his dealings with people?” I pressed him.
    “From my point of view, they were perfect,” the man insisted. “He