The Journey of Ibn Fattouma by Naguib Mahfouz

Author:Naguib Mahfouz
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2016-06-15T04:00:00+00:00

4

The Land of Halba

As in days past the caravan moved off with unhurried majesty. We plunged into the gentle darkness of dawn, not this time to drink deeply of poetry but to relive the blows from memories of prison, the sorrows of a wasted life. When I saw the shapes of my companions, it was a new generation of traders that I was viewing, but energy still persisted, wealth increased, and honor and glory still stalked the adventurous. As for the dreamers, perplexity was for them. My former failures passed before me: the moment I had quit my homeland, mourning Halima, the moment I had been turned out of Mashriq, weeping for Arousa, and the moment I had said farewell to Haira, bemoaning the loss of happiness and youth. I became aware of the east and saw it surging with red rosewater, while the face of the sun, as had been its habit throughout these past twenty years, swelled forth. The desert revealed itself as endless, and summer unloaded its heat. We continued our journey for about a month. At one of the rest stops I asked the owner of the caravan about al-Qani ibn Hamdis, and he said, “God rest his soul.” I then asked about Sheikh Maghagha al-Gibeili, but he had not heard of him, nor had any of the traders in the caravan.

We made camp at Shama, preparatory to entering Halba. My hair and beard had begun to grow and healthy blood was again running in my veins. We continued on our way until we saw the great walls in the lunar light.

The director of customs advanced towards us. He wore a light jacket suited to the mild summer weather. “Welcome to Halba,” he said joyfully, “the capital of the land of Halba, the land of freedom.”

I was amazed to hear the accursed word wherever I went; I was amazed too that his words were devoid of any warning note, declared or hidden.

“The first land to welcome the newcomer without a warning,” I said to the owner of the caravan.

“It’s the land of freedom,” he answered, laughing, “but as a foreigner your security lies in being on your guard.”

They took me off to the inn for guests. On the way, under the light of the moon, the city’s landmarks were scattered in a grandeur that suggested a new panorama. So too did the great number of sedan chairs coming and going in the light of flares at such a late hour. The entrance to the inn stood erect, broad, and tall under a roofed gallery from which hung candelabra that dazzled the eyes. The building itself looked high and vast, beautifully and richly constructed. My room gave me another surprise, with its blue walls, sumptuous carpet, raised brass bedstead with its embroidered coverings, and other things usually to be found only in upper-class houses in my homeland. It disclosed to me eloquently a civilization without doubt very many degrees superior to that of Haira. I found myself wondering where and how Arousa was now living.

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