The state of his purse improved constantly. He received a pay increase and his income from freelance translation was growing. And because he spent only what was absolutely necessary, his balance with the Post Office Savings Bank was steadily going up. His fervor for work never slackened and his relationship with the Director of Administration became close, almost as if they were friends.
One day Hamza said to him, “His Excellency the Director General has expressed his admiration for your style in translation.”
A wave of joy overwhelmed him. He became certain he wouldn’t be able to sleep a single hour of the night. Naturally, His Excellency did not remember him personally, but he still knew of him, if only as an abstract name. The Director of Administration went on: “His Excellency the Director General is a great translator. He’s translated many important books himself, and he certainly knows what he’s talking about when he praises your work.”
He mumbled gratefully and said, “I only got His Excellency’s appreciation through you.”
“I’ve been invited to give a lecture at the Civil Servants Society,” the Director said, smiling in a very friendly way. “I’ve jotted down the basic points. How about writing it up with your excellent style?”
“It would be a great pleasure, Director,” he said in a tone of enthusiasm.
He wished he could be given a similar task every day. For his work in the department, extensive and well appreciated as it was by everybody, was not going to be enough on its own. So the least he should do was to render services to his seniors, and make them feel his importance and outstanding merits. And that might mollify his dismay at the smallness of his achievements when compared with his ambitions. It was something to comfort him as he proceeded on his long path. In the night he was seized with sudden dejection and cried aloud:
“What madness! How could I imagine that one day I would achieve what I desire!”
He counted the grades he needed to pass through before ascending to the pinnacle of glory: grade five, grade four, grade three, grade two, grade one. He counted them and he counted the years they would claim of his life. It made him giddy and a sense of profound sorrow overwhelmed him. Some great event, he said to himself, must take place; his life could not be wasted away in vain. As he had an appointment with Sa‘fan Basyuni at the café, he put on his clothes and went out. He found Omm Husni waiting for him on the landing in front of her flat.
“I’ve got some visitors,” she said. “You should come in and say hello. It’s Sayyida and her mother…”
He walked in and greeted them. He was a little frightened at first, but he soon realized that everything was dead and buried. Not a single look of aversion or reproach, but one of unaffected disinterest without a glimmer of recollection. It confirmed for him that the past had fallen into the infinite abyss of death. What added to his profound awareness of the passage of time was the hearty reception the mother gave him. He saw death devouring a loved image which he believed to be eternal; and all it amounted to was a mere memory that hardly seemed to have once been real, any more than Adam in the Garden of Eden. There was Sayyida, growing fat and stupid. She reminded him of Qadriyya and his agitation grew. The top of her wrap had slipped from her head and rested on her shoulder, leaving both her head and neck free. Her embroided kerchief was drawn back to disclose a shiny forehead and parted hair. As for the luster he used to gaze at in her eyes, it had gone out. The meeting passed in a lifeless atmosphere tinged with an ironic sense of estrangement. And he tried in vain to trace on those thick lips any sign that his own lips had kissed them. He stayed only as long as courtesy demanded, and when he left, his heart was beating in supplication to the mysterious unknown which wreaked havoc with a smile at once soft and cruel. He was going to meet his old chief, who was going to be pensioned off in a few days, and spend a friendly evening with him. The old man had become skin and bone and lost the last hair on his head, not because of senility, but because of a stomach disease. However he was still as kindhearted and resigned as he had always been. It was obvious that he faced the end of his service in a depressed and melancholy state of mind. Othman tried to cheer him up.
“I wish you a long and happy rest,” he said.
“I can’t think what life will be like away from Archives,” said the old man with a meaningless burst of laughter. “And I haven’t got a hobby to keep me busy. That’s what really upsets me,” he added with a sigh.
“But you’re so popular. Everybody loves you.”
“True, and I haven’t got any family obligations left. But still I’m frightened.”
They sipped at their tea while Othman cast furtive glances at him with a feeling of compassion, till the man went on: “I still remember the day I was appointed in the civil service as vividly as yesterday. It is an unforgettable occasion, like one’s wedding night. I still remember its every detail. How could a lifetime flit by so swiftly?”
“Yes,” murmured Othman with a pang in his heart, “like so many other things…”
The man smiled at him as though announcing a change of mood and said, “What about your own family responsibilities?”
He remembered his false claims and replied, “The burden is still heavy.”
“You were just a big lad when I first took you on,” he said, looking at him with affection. “And now you’ve become a full-grown man, and soon…But anyway, just make sure time does not cheat you. Be very careful.”
“Fine! And what good does that do?”
“At least, you mustn’t let life pass you by.”
“You’re speaking of marriage?”
“Of everything. You’ve always seemed on the lookout to me. But what for? And till when?”
“But life’s like that…”
The man waved his hand in protest and said, “We all speak confidently about life as if we knew the truth about it.”
“What else could we do?”
“Without the existence of God life would be a losing game with no meaning to it.”
“It’s lucky for us that He exists, and that He knows what He’s doing better than we do.”
“Thank God for that!” said the old man with feeling.
They fell silent and then talked again, and again they fell silent and again they talked, until it was time to part. Othman felt he was never going to see him again. There was nothing between them but an old comradeship and a sense of duty on his part. Yet he felt for him, momentarily, no little compassion. As they shook hands the old man said, “I trust you won’t forget me.”
“God forbid!” he answered warmly.
“Forgetfulness is death,” said Sa‘fan in a pleading tone.
“God give you a long life!”
Othman had no intention of seeing him again, nor had he come to say goodbye to him in response to any genuine feeling, but only for fear of being charged with ingratitude. For this reason he was oppressed by his conscience and his fear of God, and he walked away hardly conscious of his surroundings. In spite of himself, his thoughts were focused on grade five, which was due to be vacant in a few days.
His standing with the Director of Administration was now so good no obstacle of any consequence stood in his way.
So he was promoted to grade five that same month and made Head of Archives.