One day while Othman was doing some routine work with Hamza al-Suwayfi, the latter remarked in the course of a conversation, “Happiness is man’s goal in life.”
“If that were so,” Othman replied with concealed contempt, “God wouldn’t have banished our first ancestor from Paradise.”
“So what do you think the purpose of life is?”
“The sacred path,” he answered proudly.
“And what’s the sacred path?”
“It’s the path of glory. Or the realization of the divine on earth.”
“Do you really aspire to dominate the world?” Hamza asked in surprise.
“Not exactly that. But there’s an element of divinity in every situation.”
The man gave him a strange look which made him regret his words. “He thinks I’m mad,” he said to himself.
A rumor spread around that His Excellency Bahjat Noor was going to be transferred to another ministry. When he heard this, his heart nearly jumped out of his breast. He had done the impossible to gain the great man’s confidence. How long would it take him to gain that of his unknown successor? But the rumor proved false. One day Bahjat Noor handed him a huge bundle of papers as he said, “This is a translation of a book on Khedive Isma‘il. It took me half a year to do it!”
Othman looked at the papers with interest.
“I’d like you to look over the style,” the man continued. “Your style really has no equal.”
He received the commission with total happiness and addressed himself to it zealously, energetically, and with meticulous care. Within one month he had returned the manuscript to His Excellency in perfect style, thus rendering the sort of service he had always yearned for. His Excellency was now his debtor, and at every meeting he was now greeted with a smile that even the most favored were not honored with.
Despite all this, his soul was still scourged by apprehension. He saw time running past him until it disappeared into the horizon, leaving him behind, all alone in the wilderness clasping his sacred ambition. His anxiety drove him to visit a woman who read fortunes from coffee cups, half Egyptian, half European, in al-Tawfiqiyya. She stared into the cup while he watched her, half excited and half ashamed. He told himself he should not have given in to superstition.
“Your health is below par,” she said to him. His physical health was good beyond question. But his mental health was not. Perhaps she was right after all…
“You will get plenty of money but only by dint of much trouble,” the woman went on.
He was not after money, albeit he held on tight to every piastre he earned. Perhaps she meant salary increases that would come with promotions ordained in the world of the unknown.
“An enemy of yours will go on a journey from which he will not return.”
Enemies were legion. They hid behind charming smiles and sugarcoated speeches. In his way there was a Deputy Director in the third grade, another in the second, and a Director of Administration in the first. They were all friends and enemies at the same time, as life with its pure intentions and its cruel demands dictated.
“I see two marriages in your life.”
He had not even succeeded in finding one, but such was the punishment of those whose misgivings led them into superstition. On his way home he remembered Onsiyya Ramadan. She was growing healthier in appearance and better-looking: a good job was quick to show itself on the faces of the poor. He was a kind chief to her. A tender and decent human relationship, as yet difficult to name, bound them together. At any rate, he no longer was able to imagine Archives without the fragrance of her presence there.
When he had returned to his room, Omm Husni came up to him and said with an air of concern which made him smile, “Madame Asila is at my place. She…”
“The headmistress?”
“Yes. She wants to ask your help with some of her affairs.”
He realized at once that she had come to snare him with her charms. His natural expectancy drove him toward adventure. He shook hands with Asila for the first time. She was wearing a blue dress which did justice to her breasts and forearms and emphasized the attractions of her figure. There she was, offering herself to him, no matter what true or false stories she had to tell. She excited him as Saniyya and Qadriyya had done. They were of the same type: voluptuous and exciting but not fit for marriage.
Omm Husni said, “I’ll go and make you coffee.”
Always the same tactics! An old woman whose sole concern was to see people lawfully wedded. Here they were, sitting on the same sofa with nothing between them but a cushion. He tilted his head to straighten his mustache, meanwhile casting a glance at her well-rounded leg firmly planted in a masculine-style low-heeled shoe.
“I’m honored, madame!”
“The honor is mine.”
She clasped her hands in her lap and said with a firmness which displayed her ability to face up to the situation, “May I ask you a question?”
“Madame?”
“I own a piece of land which has been expropriated by the government. I’m sure you understand these matters?”
“Of course.”
“The road they’re going to build covers most of it but leaves bits which cannot be put to any use.”
“I believe this is taken into consideration when the valuation is made.”
“But the procedures are complicated, as you know.”
“You may depend on me.”
By the same measure as he sensed the strength of her personality he despaired of seducing her. She was prepared to marry him and in fact she came for nothing else. But for her to acquiesce to an illicit relationship with him looked impossible. Omm Husni came back and they started to drink coffee in total silence. Perhaps she was the most suitable wife on several counts, but she was not the one he wanted. Out of the blue came the image of Onsiyya Ramadan placing itself between them and effacing the woman completely. Since the days at the ancient fountain, his heart had not moved as it did for that young girl. His strained nerves relaxed and his mind was set at ease as he received from his imagination a fresh breeze reawakening his noblest feelings. When the woman had gone, he found Omm Husni looking at him anxiously for reassurance on the success of her purpose in life, on which she spared no effort and which had become part of her faith. The old woman had come to worship marriage and children and the festivities associated with them, and she praised God for the miracle of love which He had created. When his silence continued, she said hopefully, “Maybe you’ve changed your mind?”
“Why should I?”
“Didn’t you see how beautiful she is?”
He remained silent, adamant in his rejection of the hand she stretched out to him in kindness.
In a voice of disappointment Omm Husni began: “As the proverb says…”
He left the room before he could hear the proverb. What a pity! Unless a valuable marriage came to his rescue, his pains were likely to be wasted and his hopes destroyed in midcourse. His life had become the object of endless questions and criticisms. People wondered why he didn’t marry and have children and make friends. They also wondered how he could live entirely in his private world and ignore the national events taking place around him which excited people even to the point of giving up their lives. And what were the causes which preoccupied them and possessed their hearts, hovering above the noise of their conversations and hindering their work? They talked endlessly about children, diseases, food, the system of government, class conflict, political parties; they repeated proverbs and clever sayings and they cracked jokes. They did not live a true life: they ran away from their sacred duty. They recoiled from taking part in the fearful race against time and glory and death, and in the fulfillment of God’s word, which was withheld from the unworthy.