One day Othman came across an advertisement of some interest. It had been put out by his ministry to fill a vacancy for a translator with a knowledge of both English and French at a salary of thirty-five pounds per month. A date was announced for a competition. He entered the competition without hesitation and without giving it much thought. It so happened that he won it, and this increased his self-confidence and the pride he took in his own talents. He was called to see Hamza al-Suwayfi in his office (the new appointment was under his direct supervision).
“I congratulate you on your success. It shows how versatile you are,” he said.
Othman thanked him with his usual politeness.
“But that’s a post with a fixed salary,” the man said. “If you take it, you will be excluded from the ordinary promotion scale. Have you thought about that?”
He had not in fact realized this and soon his enthusiasm for the job’s relatively high salary subsided.
“Actually I do not wish to withdraw from the ordinary scale…” he said.
“That means we should appoint the runner-up.”
Othman thought of a good idea and said, “Wouldn’t it be possible to have me promoted to grade six, add the translation work to my responsibilities, and thus save a considerable sum in the budget?”
The Director of Administration thought for a long while and then said, “The question must be raised with the Personnel Office and the Legal Department.”
“Very well, sir.”
Hamza laughed and said, “You are ambitious as well as wise. I hope your suggestion will be accepted.”
His promotion to grade six was settled at a monthly salary of twenty-five pounds. And though he had to sacrifice ten pounds a month, still he earned a promotion that otherwise he would not have reached for years, quite apart from the special importance attached to him because of his dual job. As usual, he enjoyed a brief spell of happiness. His acquaintance with happiness was ephemeral, like chance encounters on the road. He went back to measuring the long path and groaning at its infinite length. What use was grade six when he was nearing the end of his youth and about to enter a new phase of his life?
Sa‘fan Basyuni embraced him and said, “You are making marvelous leaps ahead, my son…”
“But days are swifter than a fleeting thought,” he said wistfully.
“They are indeed. Heaven protect you from their evil…”
Othman gazed at his wrinkled face and said, “Tell me about the ambitions you had when you were young, would you?”
“Me? God be praised! The position of Head of Archives was greater than anything I dreamed of.”
“Didn’t you aspire to become Director General?”
The old man broke into a fit of laughter until tears came to his eyes. “Common people like us cannot aim at anything beyond being the head of a section,” he said.
He was wrong. What he said was true of reaching the position of Minister or Under Secretary of State, but to become a Director General was not impossible for ordinary people. It was their ultimate aspiration, particularly for those special cases who prepared themselves for that exalted glory. But days went by incessantly and stealthily. And the position of Director General would be of no avail if it were not held long enough for it to be enjoyed, for life to be appreciated under it, and for the most sublime of services to be rendered in its name to the sacred apparatus called the government.
When was he going to fulfill the requirements of his faith? Before achieving his life’s ambition or after? He must have a family and father children or else he would be damned. Either the bride that exalts a man to glory or the glory that attracts a dazzling bride. Under the intensity of his anguish, he sometimes craved for tranquillity and leisure as he brooded over the hard struggle which gave life its sole meaning and sacred agony.
One day he learned that the Director of Administration, Hamza al-Suwayfi, was complaining that his son was falling behind at school over foreign languages. He offered to help him.
Hamza was undecided and said, “I’d better find him a private tutor. I don’t want you to waste your time with him.”
“Your Honor,” replied Othman in words chosen with his usual care, “you have used words I cannot allow.”
So he paid frequent visits to the Director’s house and took singular trouble with the boy, with the result that he passed his examination. The Director tried to reward him but he recoiled as though from fire and said, “I shall not permit Your Honor that either…” And he stood his ground until the man succumbed. Then he added in a grateful tone, “I owe so much to you for your kindness and encouragement…”
However, he felt in the depths of his heart a pain of similar dimensions to the sum he had magnanimously declined to take. But that was not the only frustration he suffered in frequenting the Director’s house. For he had dreamed of coming upon a “suitable” bride there, and who could know? He also dreamed that his services might intercede for him with Hamza al-Suwayfi and enable him to overlook the humbleness of his birth and admit him into a new class that would help him make progress. But the dream did not come true and on his visits the only people he met were males. Sa‘fan Basyuni would not have cared about his birth: the origins of the two of them were much the same. But what benefit could he expect from marrying his daughter? Nothing but children and cares and poverty. Not even love. For he only loved Sayyida and his heart had been dead since he abandoned her. But those who aspired to glory on the path to God did not concern themselves with happiness.
Days went by as they always would: the scorching days of summer, the dreamy days of autumn, the cruel days of winter, and the scented days of spring. And he himself would always maintain his patient determination and his soaring ambition, along with the bitterness in his heart and the grinding of his desires.