Free The Beggar, the Thief and the Dogs, Autumn Quail by Naguib Mahfouz Page B

late. I have my pride, and failure only intensified it.”
    Failure! The curse that never ends. It’s awful that no one listens to your songs, that your love for the secret of existence dies, so that existence itself loses all mystery. Sighs of lament will one day destroy everything.
    The office witnessed sober visits from his uncle, a justice, and from his only sister. They besought him not to marry “the dancer” and his uncle observed, “If this relationship continues, you won’t be considered for the justiceship.”
    He said rather abruptly, “I haven’t striven for it or wanted it.”
    He defended his happiness fiercely, with all the force of despair which had seized him. He seemed so childishly gay and innocent that Mustapha remarked, laughing, “Now tell us about the meaning of life.”
    Omar laughed loudly. “That question nags at us only when our hearts are empty….A full vessel doesn’t produce hollow sounds. Ecstasy is fulfillment, so I can only hope that love will bring everlasting ecstasy.”
    “Sometimes I pity you, other times I envy you.” Omar’s eyes shone triumphantly as Mustapha continued. “As fast as I speed through life, now and then the old sense of failure, buried deep in my heart, returns—perhaps on one of the dusty days of the sandstorm season, and I’m bedeviled by questions about life’s meaning, but I soon repress them, like shameful memories.”
    A wintry wind rattled the windows of the office and thelate afternoon faded into night. Mustapha’s bald head would now brave the cold. He went on. “Why do we ask? Religious conviction provided meaning. Now we try to fill the void with the verifications of natural law. Yesterday, frustrated and dissatisfied, I asserted that my artistic commentaries were meaningful, that my past and present radio programs were meaningful, that my television plays were meaningful, and so I had no right to question.”
    “What a hero you are!”
    He continued enumerating his achievements. “The way I made love to my wife last night was so fantastic that I suggested to the editor that it be written up as ‘The Artistic Event of the Week.’ My son Omar, unfortunately named after you, has become a sulky adolescent, as mad about soccer as we once were about overturning the world.”
    He overturned the world and landed in jail. But someday he’d get out, in a few years, and astonished glances would be exchanged. Let others worry about it.
    Mustapha remarked in a more serious vein, “The editor suggested that I give a lecture to the employees on socialist consciousness.”
    “In what capacity?”
    “In my capacity as an old socialist!”
    “You accepted, of course?”
    “Of course, but I wonder, with the state so intent on applying its progressive ideals, isn’t it better for us to be concerned with our own private affairs?”
    “Such as selling popcorn and watermelon seeds and wondering about the meaning of life?”
    “Or falling in love to find the ecstasy of fulfillment.”
    “Or growing ill without cause.”
    They smoked in silence, then Omar asked suddenly, “How are they?”
    Mustapha smiled. “Zeinab is fine, back to normal, though exhausted by her pregnancy. But there’s something you should know.”
    Omar showed signs of interest.
    “She’s thinking of looking for work after the delivery.”
    He made a gesture of annoyance as Mustapha continued. “As a translator, for example. I’m afraid that she’ll leave home one day.”
    “But it’s her home.”
    Mustapha looked at him sarcastically. “Buthayna’s immersed in her studies, and Jamila has almost forgotten you.”
    He lowered his eyes, disconcerted.
    “And I fulfill my duty by criticizing you relentlessly in the bitterest terms.”
    Omar laughed. “You old hypocrite.”
    “My wife, on her part, never ceases attacking you.”
    “Of course, of course.”
    “I often defend you when we’re alone and attribute your behavior to a ‘severe psychological illness,’