“I’m sorry at your leaving the Archives Section and happy for your sake, in equal degrees,” said Sa‘fan Basyuni.
In the emotional atmosphere Othman’s heart melted with momentary sincerity. Tears came to his eyes as he murmured, “I will never forget you, Mr. Basyuni, and I’ll never forget the time I spent in Archives.”
“Yet I’m happy because you are.”
Othman sighed and said, “Happiness is very short-lived, Mr. Basyuni.”
Sa‘fan did not understand his remark but Othman lived it. He carried time on his back moment by moment and suffered patience drop by drop. He soon forgot that he was promoted to grade seven or that he worked in the Budget Department. He worked at the ministry like a man possessed, and in his tiny room he delved into more knowledge. Occasionally he would tell himself apprehensively that life flitted by, youth flitted by, and that the river of time flowed on and would not rest…
He was still at the beginning of the path. His frugality increased with time and his attachment to his primitive house grew stronger. Money was a safeguard, he felt; and, if need be, it could be a dowry for the bride of his dreams. The bride of his dreams who would open closed doors and entice the treasure of the future out of its hiding place. Officials had a whole lore of wise sayings and proverbs on the subject. The right bride would be either the reward of glory achieved early or the key to glory that otherwise could hardly be achieved at all. The path seemed long and difficult and he needed succor. Rumor had it that His Excellency the Director General reached his unique position when he was fairly young thanks to politics and family connections and that as a result he married a girl of ineffable beauty from a highly respected family.
It was also rumored that the First Deputy Director of the department was promoted because of his wife, or more correctly his wife’s family.
Othman had equipped himself with every possible weapon. Nobody could blame him, then, if he sought the support of a wellborn bride; otherwise how was he to stand against the ruthless current of time? So he started to do translations for newspapers and magazines to earn more money and build up his savings. In this too he was by no means unsuccessful, but he did not spend a single piastre more to alleviate the harshness of his life. Of all the fun in the world he knew only one thing: his weekly visit to Qadriyya in the lane and that hellish glass of wine at half a piastre.
Once she said to him, “You never change this suit. You wear it summer and winter. I’ve known it for years just as I’ve known you.”
He frowned and said nothing.
“Don’t be cross! I like a good laugh.”
“Have you counted the money I have given to you over the past years?” he said to her naively.
“I once had a crush on a man,” she retorted sardonically, “and he stole two hundred pounds from me. Do you know what two hundred pounds means?”
At the thought of such a disaster he prayed to God for protection from the countless afflictions of life.
“And what did you do?” he asked her.
“Nothing. God keeps us in good health. That’s what matters.”
He told himself there was no doubt that she was mad and that was why she was a whore. But she was the only recreation in his rigorous life and she gave him comfort of sorts. Sometimes he yearned for real love and its charms which gave life a different savor. He would remember Sayyida and the steps of the forlorn fountain and the desert, but in the end he would surrender to the harsh jests of life, resting content with himself, despite the torment in his soul, for having chosen the arduous path attended by the blessing of God and His lofty glory.
One night Qadriyya said to him, “Why don’t the two of us go on a picnic on Friday morning?”
He was astonished and said, “I steal my way to you in the dark like a thief…”
“What are you afraid of?”
What could he say? She understood nothing. “It wouldn’t be right if anyone saw me…” he replied in a tone of apology.
“Are you committing a crime?”
“The people…”
“You are the bull who carries the earth on its horns…” she said satirically.
He was a godly and righteous man with a good reputation to take proper care of.
“You could keep me all to yourself for a whole night,” she said seductively. “We could make an arrangement…”
“And the cost?” he said warily.
“Fifty piastres.”
He contemplated the idea with concern. It would bring him, despite the terrible price, real consolation. And he needed consolation.
“A good idea,” he said. “Let it be once a month.”
“Would once a month be enough for you?”
“I might come more often, but in the normal way.”
He admitted he could not live without her. She was his age, but she appeared insensible to time and the effect it was rapidly making on her. She lived without love and without glory as if, in a kind of fury, she had made a pact with the devil. And how it galled him when she once confessed to him that she had taken part in a demonstration.
“A demonstration!” he shouted angrily.
“What’s the matter? Yes. A demonstration…Even this back street felt patriotic once…”
He told himself that insanity was more widespread than he had reckoned. Political interests exasperated and amazed him. Yet he was determined not to pay attention to them. He believed that man had only one path along which he had to trek without flinching and all alone, taking no part in politics and demonstrations, that only a solitary man could be aware of God and what He wished him to do in this life, and that man’s glory was fulfilled in his muddled but conscious effort to distinguish good and evil and in resisting death until the last moment.