Free The Time and the Place by Naguib Mahfouz Page B

door.
    There was not a single free chair in the tavern, which consisted of a square room in the basement of an old, dilapidated building. The room looked onto a rear alley through the iron bars of a single window, and its gloomy, tomblike atmosphere required it to be lit both day and night. Its walls had been painted a light blue and they exuded dark stains of dampness in various places. Its door opened onto a long narrow passageway that led to the street, and on one of the room’s sides were ranged barrels of the infernal wine. The tavern’s patrons were one big family tree whose branches were spread among the bare wooden tables. Some of them were bound by ties of friendship or by being colleagues at work, while all were joined in the brotherhood of being together in the same place and in the spiritual intimacy they shared there night after night. They were united too by conversation and the infernal wine.
    They were engaged in a sing-song when a stranger appeared at the door.
    It was not uncommon for one of them to be asked the question, “Why is it that you prefer the Tavern of the Black Cat?”
    Its real name is The Star, but it acquired its popular name because of its huge black cat, adored by the emaciated and angular Greek owner, and friend and mascot of the patrons.
    “I prefer the Tavern of the Black Cat because of its friendly, family atmosphere and because for a piaster or two you can fly without wings.”
    The black cat would roam about from table to table in search of bread crumbs and scraps of felafel and fish. It would hang about at people’s feet and rub itself against their legs with the coquetry of one deprived of God’s favors, while its Greek owner would lean his elbows on the table, gazing lifelessly into space. As for the old waiter, he would go around with the wine or fill up the small ribbed glasses from the taps on the barrels.
    “And it’s the tavern with the most compassion for those with fixed incomes.”
    Witticisms and anecdotes would be exchanged, and hearts would grow closer by sharing grievances. Then someone with a fine voice would break into song, and that damp, tomblike place would overflow with happiness.
    “There’s no harm in our forgetting for a moment the plurality of children and the paucity of money.”
    “And to forget the heat and the flies….”
    “And to forget that there’s a world outside the iron bars.”
    “And to take pleasure in fondling the black cat.”
    In the moments of being together, their spirits would become serene, abounding with love for everything, freed from fear and bigotry and cleansed of the specters of disease, old age, and death. They would conceive themselves in a likeness to which they aspired, outstripping time by whole centuries.
    They were engaged in a sing-song when a stranger appeared at the door.
    The stranger looked all around but did not find an empty table. He disappeared from sight into the passageway, and they thought he had gone for good, but he returned carrying a rush chair—the chair of the Greek owner himself—placed it against the narrow door and sat down.
    He had come in with a sullen expression, and had returned and sat down with one. He looked at no one. His eyes revealed a stern, fierce look; a look that was absent, that was takingrefuge in some unknown, faraway world and seeing none of those who were filling the small place. His appearance in general was dark, strong, and frightening, as if he were a wrestler, a pugilist, or a weight lifter. And his clothes went perfectly with his dark complexion; they accented it—the black sweater, the dark gray trousers, and the brown rubber-soled shoes. The only thing that shone in that gloomy form was a square-shaped patch of baldness that crowned a large hard-looking head.
    His unexpected presence let loose an electric charge that penetrated through to the depths of those seated around the tables. The singing stopped, the expressions on the men’s faces contracted, the