Read Online The Time and the Place by Naguib Mahfouz - Free Book Online Page A

he still persisted in wearing a tarboosh; he was an unattractive person, though not perhaps because of any particular defect. I would become aware of his presence when I heard Sitt Fawziyya chiding him harshly, not letting himget a word in edgeways. As for me, It would deal with him with all the tact of which I was capable. I would receive him and sit him down on the only sofa and give him tea. He used to enjoy returning my greeting by saying, “I’d like someday to come and find you’d done your religious duty by getting married.”
    Concealing the fact that I had a lump in my throat, I would ask him, “Have you got a bride and a wedding going for free?”
    He would blow at the steam from the tea, take a noisy sip, and nod his head without uttering a word. I would hand the rent to him—three pounds—and he would take it, smiling scornfully, and saying, as he counted the money off between his fingers, “Less than the price of a kilo of meat—and they call me a landlord!” Then, encouraged by my silence, he would continue, “It’s money that’s destined for orphans, I swear by God.”
    And I’d say, “Two wretches squabbling over nothing—but what’s to be done?”
    “If you weren’t occupying the house, I’d have sold it for a good amount.” Then, in an admonitory tone, “It’s on the way to collapsing. Didn’t the Council warn you?”
    “And are we to throw ourselves into the street?” I would inquire.
    I am always deprived of the feeling of stability and security, as well as of being clean and healthy. Even so, I am better off than others, for I am at least on my own—from lack of means rather than from choice, but I am nevertheless on my own: a lonely and repressed hermit in a house about to fall down in an alley buried under garbage. I perform miracles to obtain a tasty meal (though not all that often) and a suit of clothes to cover the self-respect of a branch office manager. I dream of a home like those I see in the advertisements of the cooperatives and a bride like those on view in the weekly “brides” page—or even like Sitt Fawziyya. I console myself by reading
The Finery of the Saints
, the lives of pious, ascetic saints who live trusting in God,casting worldly cares aside, and finding refuge in everlasting peace. However, some chance item of news about a house collapsing, or about the police forcibly evacuating a building immediately after one side of it has come apart, would shake me to the core. Such news would call me back from the paradise of the saints and fill me with terror. Where would the people go? What belongings would be left to them? How would they manage? My sense of loneliness would be redoubled, despite the fact that the family I belonged to was a veritable tribe, scattered over different parts of the city, brothers and sisters and other relatives. And yet, with all that, what a suffocating loneliness! There were kind enough feelings about, but not a house to welcome a newcomer. Each house had just enough room for its occupants, and each branch of the family bore its own troubles. I might well find shelter for a day or a week, but permanent residence would constitute a cancerous growth in any house.
    So I would hurry off to the café, my paradisiacal refuge. I would meet up with colleagues and find solace in exchanging complaints. And strange as it may seem, I was regarded among them as one of the lucky ones, being on my own and the load I carried being consequently light. My terrible solitude was something of value, something to be envied. How lucky you are—no wife, no daughter, no son! None of the problems of the generation gap, or of marrying off daughters, or of paying for private lessons. You are in a position to eat meat once a week, or even twice. A home just for yourself, which knows no arguments or quarrels. I would nod my head with satisfaction, but deep down I would wonder whether they had not forgotten the pains of repression and loneliness. Even so I