“Za‘balāwī,” a short story by Najīb Maḥfūz, was first published in 1961, and in 1963 it was incorporated with other stories in Maḥfūz's book Dunyā’ Allāh (The World of God)¹. Because it is a short story it is hardly representative of the author's work as a whole, since Maḥfūz is essentially a novelist (up to 1967 he published some twenty novels as opposed to only three collections of short stories). Nevertheless “Za‘balāwī” is an excellent example of a recurrent theme in Maḥfūz's work, which, in fact, constitutes the backbone of his later novels, especially those published in the 'sixties. Our story also foreshadows certain techniques and modes of writing which are characteristic of his more mature works.

Maḥfūz was born in Cairo in 1912 where he was educated, and in 1934 he graduated from the philosophy department of Cairo University. While still at university and in the subsequent years he began publishing philosophic articles and short stories. He became associated with Salāma Mūsā, the left-wing journalist and reformer, and wrote for his magazine al-Majalla al-jadīda. Like many of his generation, he was for a while attracted to the history of ancient Egypt, and when he took up writing novels, his first three plots took place in Pharaonic Egypt. He then shifted the focus of his interest to modern Cairo. His Cairene novels, which were written in a strictly realistic vein have as their main protagonists people from the black-coated classes or from the impoverished masses living in the old quarters of Cairo. This stage culminated in his famous trilogy which was written between the years 1947-52 and published in 1956-7². This work is undoubtedly one of the most impressive products of modern Arabic fiction. With great artistic competence he portrays three successive generations of a middle class family, drawing largely on auto-biographical material.

The trilogy brought fame and recognition to its hitherto unacclaimed author, but was followed by a few years during which he refrained from publishing anything new. According to Maḥfūz, he felt that he had enough of the detailed, naturalistic approach to life, and for a while thought that he would write no more. On another occasion he intimated that with the advent of the new regime he no longer felt inclined to describe the society of the past. Many critics feel that he was, in point of fact, involved at this juncture in a deeper crisis which was profoundly spiritual. He caused a great stir in the world of letters by serializing his controversial novel, ’Awlād Hāratinā (1959). This novel, though in my opinion not one of his best, inaugurates a complete change in the author's style and field of interest. ’Awlād Hāratinā is an allegorical novel, portrying, as it were, the social and spiritual history of man from Adam to our day.

Since 1960 Maḥfūz has chosen to write short novels (he has also returned to writing short stories) all of which have philosophical undertones. The stress is now on moods, situations, and symbols rather than on naturalistic or psychological studies. The existential moments gain prominence. Both the characters and events in these novels are evocative. They have a significance which transcends the bare statement of experience. Very often they can be described as double-layered stories. The painstaking, laboured style of the early works has disappeared to be replaced by an extremely personal one. Maḥfūz is now crisp, lyrical and allusive.

This paper is an attempt to illustrate the symbolic stage in Maḥfūz's work, and by studying “Za‘balāwī,” to show how successful the writer is in his use of the two-layer technique. Though he is evocative he does not exaggerate the allegory or indulge his fancy in the art of the absurd.

The story is simple. The narrator tells us that he was afflicted by a malady for which no one had a remedy, and was overwhelmed by despair.³ He remembers a saintly man (waliy) called Za‘balāwī, about whom he had heard in his childhood from his father. Hoping that this waliy would be able to cure him, he sets out to look for him. In his search (which proves to be most exhausting) he calls on several elderly people among whom are a Muslim court lawyer, a parish shaykh (sayk al-ḥāra), a bookseller, a calligrapher (kaṭṭāṭ), and a composer (mulaḥḥin). These people are either impressed or startled by his resolution to meet Za‘balāwī, but none can give him a clue to help him to find the man: Za‘balāwī is an extremely unpredictable person whose whereabouts are unknown and who can appear at any moment or be out of sight for long periods. We also learn—through their reactions—that Za‘balāwī is presumably capable of tackling the narrator's malady and that he would cure him free of charge provided that he felt the patient loved him. Finally the narrator comes upon a close acquaintance of Za‘balāwī who is a heavy-drinking, old-fashioned landowner (min al-wāritīn). When the narrator approaches him in the tavern the man refuses to discuss anything with him unless he joins him for a drink. Being unaccustomed to alcohol, the narrator soon becomes tipsy, falls asleep, and dreams of heavenly bliss. On waking up he is informed, to his astonishment, that Za‘balāwī had been sitting next to him for quite a while, and had even been sprinkling water on him to make him sober, but that he has, only a moment ago, gone away. The frustrated man tries to catch him before he goes too far, but fails. Nevertheless, he is now sure that Za‘balāwī is still alive and is more resolved than ever to track him down.

The allusions in this story are not altogether obscure. The language often comes very close to that of Sūfī literature. Occasionally when the characters speak of Za‘balāwī, there is an aura of mystery and fear which might almost betoken their attitude to the Almighty. The father, for instance, when asked by his son (the narrator) about who Za‘balāwī was, gives the boy a hesitant look as if doubting his ability to understand the answer and then says: “May his blessing be on you! … He is the bearer of men's sorrows and troubles. Were it not for him I would have died of grief.”⁴

Furthermore we hear from the parish shaykh that Za‘balāwī dwelt in Birgāwī building “when that building was fit for dwelling.”⁵ At present “he has no abode (maskan), which is the trouble.”⁶ The same man nevertheless asserts that Za‘balāwī is alive (ḥayy lam yamut).⁷ He is a baffling man, he tells the narrator, “but,” he adds, “thank God that he is still alive.”⁸

The calligrapher exclaims, “what a mystery that man is … but saints are beyond the pale of reproach.” He also reflects that Za‘balāwī's face “is blessed with a beauty that cannot be forgotten,” then exclaims “but where is he anyhow?”⁹ He too, asserts that he is alive (ḥayy). He, as well as the composer, get their inspiration when Za‘balāwī is present, and the latter declares that “Za‘balāwī is the ecstasy of music incarnate. His voice when speaking is very beautiful. No sooner do you hear him than you wish to sing yourself, and the joy of creation is stirred within you.”¹⁰

There are certain frequently used words in the story which have a strong ṣūfī flavour, such as ḥubb (‘love’), ‘adhāb, (‘suffering’), liqā’ (‘encounter’).

’Allāh, the name of God, is frequently introduced into the story. For instance, when the narrator visits the calligrapher he finds him working on a decorative plaque in the middle of which is inscribed the word “’Allāh” in silver lettering. Again the name of God comes into the text almost inadvertently coupled with that of Za‘balāwī. ’Allāh is here referred to in everyday expostulations and exclamations.¹¹

The question, however, still remains unanswered: what is it that obsesses the narrator with the search for Za‘balāwī? In other words, what is the nature of his malady, for which no cure can be found?

Let us recapitulate. When the narrator sets out to look for Za‘balāwī, he soon finds out that many of his old friends have dropped him and well nigh forgotten his existence. They have, in the meantime, indulged themselves in all that a materialistic civilization has to offer (symbolised by the telephone, the cigar, and especially the European coat worn over the gallābiyya). Some of them remember with nostalgia the olden days when Za‘balāwī used to frequent them. Some go so far as to ridicule the saint by calling him a quack. They advise the narrator to consult doctors about his illness to which his reaction is the thought “as if I had not done so already.”¹² The parish shaykh is now so modern a person that he can draw a map of the area. What is still more significant is that he used the expression “why not resort to reason (‘aql)?” As opposed to these people who have become rational in the sense that they are dependent on ‘aql, and are poles apart from Za‘balāwī, we have the two representatives of the arts—the calligrapher and the musician. Both are still dependent, to a large extent, on Za‘balāwī for inspiration and encouragement. It is to be remembered here that the word ’ilhām (p. 167) used by the composer, means both ‘inspiration’ and ‘revelation’ and is, of course, diametrically opposed to‘aql. Another man who is friendly with Za‘balāwī is Hājj Wanas, the alcoholic. While drinking, his face acquires the colour of red wine (bi-ḥumrat al-kamr, p. 168). Again one recalls the frequent use of the word kamr in ṣūfī poetry to symbolize ecstatic union with the creator.¹³ Hājj Wanas refuses to have any business with the narrator unless he drinks with him. On drinking the narrator dreams of heavenly harmony, and it is just at this moment that Za‘balāwī makes his appearance. He disappears again as soon as the narrator sobers up.

The hero's malady is then, that of a restless inquiring soul, posing questions for which science (referred to as medicine) can offer no answer. It is at this critical moment of doubt that one is reminded of the God who gave one's parents solace and peace of mind. But our narrator finds out that His old acquaintances (representing the established religion) have lost contact with God under the impact of so-called civilization. Only the artist, in the act of creation, and the ascetic when detached from mundane reality, can communicate with Him who can heal all pain.

The theme then is a highly sophisticated one. It is of universal reference. The local Muslim background and terminology are no more than a disguise under which is hidden a problem common to so many intellectuals in different cultural environments and different historical periods. There is, moreover, a special flavour of our present century, which, along with great scientific and technological achievements, has brought a certain disillusionment with science, or, at least—an acute awareness of its limitations. The conviction that science is capable of solving all human problems and of answering all the big questions is no longer de rigueur among intellectuals. We are no longer astonished when we hear of a scientist who finds refuge from doubt in formal religion or mysticism.

“Za‘balāwī” is, I think, self-sufficient, and the author makes his point quite vividly. But it would not be out of place to mention a few cognate points in other works by Maḥfūz. Maḥfūz has always been aware, even in his strictly historical and sociological novels, of “spiritual” questions such as fate (his very first novel was called “The Mockery of Fate” ‘Abat al-’Aqdār, 1939), belief and disbelief, spirit as opposed to substance. But the first reference to the conflict between science and religion is made in his novel al-Qāhira al-jadīda (1945). Here the student ‘Alī Tāhā makes his spiritual way “from Mecca to Moscow” through the good offices of positivism. On reading Auguste Comte, he acquires a belief in a new God, society, and a new religion, science, thus departing from the religion of his fathers. Similarly Kamāl, the protagonist of the trilogy, who is said to possess many traits of Maḥfūz himself, also becomes a non-believer when he makes the acquaintance of Darwinism and modern science. For a while he believes that the “real religion is science,” that it is “the key to the secrets and splendours of the universe.”¹⁴ His enthusiasm, however, subsides when he reaches his thirties. He starts doubting the validity of scientific solutions.¹⁵ But having lost his religious beliefs forever, he feels absolutely lost. The next generation in his family is saved from metaphysical doubts by becoming immersed in political activity (one nephew being a Communist, the other a member of the Muslim Brothers) and towards the end of the last part of the trilogy, when both nephews are taken to jail, Kamāl shows signs of sympathy with the Left and is inclined to accept their argument that “man's universal duty is eternal revolution.”¹⁶ He himself arrives at the conclusion that “mysticism is escapism and so is the passive belief in science. Action is essential.”¹⁷

Certain Egyptian critics believed at the time that the works to follow the trilogy would reflect this change of heart and thus portray “action” and “eternal revolution.”

But this change did not actually take place. Instead, there came a period of silence on the part of the author. Then he published his allegorical novel ’Awlād Hāratinā, (‘Children of our Quarter’) where the same questions are reiterated with more vigour and insistence. Here Jabalāwī (standing for the Creator) has retired to his secluded palace, making no effect to save posterity from their cruel rulers, from misery and poverty. A succession of prophets who come forth to rescue their oppressed peoples are always defeated by the ruler, either through outright destruction or by turning them into part of the bullying establishment. Finally a new prophet emerges, the scientist (referred to as a magician) who on attempting to uncover the ultimate secret (sirr al-kitāb) causes the death of the old Jabalāwī.¹⁸ Nevertheless he not only fails to discover the secret, but also supplies the rulers with a destructive chemical weapon and is in the end killed by those rulers. The novel, however, does not wind up with sheer pessimism, for the people of the Hāra (‘quarter’) are still waiting for the magician's surviving brother to come and save them.

’Awlād Hāratinā is a novel laden with questions, not only about the history of humanity, but above all, about the present and the future of man. It is characteristic of Maḥfūz that he does not try to provide explicit answers. One of the answers hinted at is that if a just regime were to arise, releasing human beings from exploitation, and giving everyone the opportunity to develop freely and to follow the course of science, they might one day discover the secret,¹⁹ and hence we can understand Maḥfūz's belief in what he calls “ṣūfī-socialism.”²⁰

The works which follow ’AwlādHāratinā demonstrate, if anything, a further drift from absolute belief in science and civilization and an obvious partiality for the mystical experience. Sūfī or semi-ṣūfī characters now appear very often in his stories (cf., the ṣūfī shaykh in al-Liṣṣ wa’l-kilāb (1961); Samīr ‘Abd-al-Bāqī in al-Summān wa’l-karīf (1962); ‘Umar al-Hamzāwī in al-Saḥḥadh (1965); ’Anīs Zakī in Tartara fawq al-Nīl (1966). The search itself becomes a major theme in these works, and a tiresome and unrewarding search it is. One of Maḥfūz's latest novels, al-Tarīq (1964), pivots around a search, again after a sort of Za‘balāwī (which is represented by a son looking for his unknown father). Here, the son, Sābir, in the course of his investigations, becomes entangled in a series of adventures which lead him to committing murder and subsequently to receiving a death sentence. It is only then—on the threshold of execution—that he finds a clue to the identity of his father, but alas—it is too late.

In “Za‘balāwī,” too, we encounter this fruitless search. True, the narrator has become convinced that Za‘balāwī exists, but he has not actually met him, nor has his malady vanished; and the story ends with virtually the same words with which it opens: “Yes, I have to find Za‘balāwī.”²¹

The remarkable thing about the author's craft in “Za‘balāwī” is the fine equilibrium that is maintained between the two layers of the story. The external layer is by no means subdued or blurred by the inner one. In fact the story can be fully accepted as credible. Everything is plausible, being extracted from the depths of Egyptian life. To seek remedies for serious ailments from saintly men is certainly a common practice in the East (one would even say today). The different people whom the narrator meets on his way, though not described in detail, are nevertheless true to life. The alcoholic Hājj Wanas is, again, so familar that we cannot but admire so convincing a vignette. The saintly man who is sought by the police as a quack is also a real event. We can even accept the fact that Za‘balāwī frequents a wine shop (he himself does not drink!) and befriends Hājj Wanas: he has now become an outcast and thus is more likely to be found in the company of people of “suspect” morals.

There is, however, a problematic expression which does not easily fit into the exterior layer; namely the clause: al-dā’ alladhī lā dawā’ lahu ‘ind ’aḥad (‘the malady for which nobody has a cure’) which can imply that it is not an earthly disease. But there too we know only too well of certain bodily diseases that medicine cannot cure, and the definite article in al-dā’ can refer, for instance, to cancer.

The author is at pains to introduce many local names, scenes, and people as a counterweight to those utterances which have spiritual overtones. Any remark or phrase which might be too blatantly mystical is brought smartly to earth by an interjected reference to actuality. Thus when the calligrapher says of Za‘balāwī, “He is alive, without any doubt. His taste is unsurpassed. It is thanks to him that I painted my best works”²²—he appears to be giving a precise and factual analysis of a situation. The actuality of his remarks is enhanced by the remark that Za‘balāwī's taste is unsurpassed, a remark without which the speech might have been describing the ineffable. It just misses—and deliberately—being a mystical apothegm.²³

Now consider the following situation which occurs in the tavern:

Wanas answered with concern: “The odd thing about him is that money means nothing to him. But he will cure you if you should come across him.”

“Without a fee?”

“Yes, his cure is free the moment he feels that you love him.”

When the shrimp hawker came back empty-handed, I had somewhat sobered up and left the tavern slightly unsteady on my feet. At every street corner I called out “Za‘balāwī!”, hoping against hope that he would hear me. The street boys turned contemptuous eyes on me, and I had to escape into the first taxi that came my way.

The sudden appearance of the shrimp man (which directly follows the mention of ‘love’) and the other mundane references (the children, the taxi) are clearly designed to muffle what is an exceedingly mystical discourse.

Another example of this technique is the conversation with the composer, which is overloaded with “spiritual” references (among other things the musician rehearses an unmistakably ṣūfī verse, to be sure, from a poem by Ibn al-Fāriḍ, the great mystical poet of medieval Egypt, p. 167). The narrator complains of his suffering and the composer answers, “This pain is a part of the treatment.” These words undoubtedly form a climax of the mystical discourse. But a humourous scene is introduced right away and we are instantly brought back to the realistic story.

He picked up his plectrum and began to strum lightly on the strings of his ‘ūd playing sweet music. I watched him with a distracted air and then said as if I were talking to myself:

“So my visit was pointless!”

He smiled, caressing the side of his ‘ūd with his cheek, and went on to say, “God forgive you for saying that. How can you say such a thing about a visit that has acquainted me with you and you with me?!”

I felt ashamed and said in apology, “Please don't hold it against me—the soreness of disappointment made me forget my manners.”²⁴

In saying, “So my visit was pointless,” the narrator contradicts his earlier claim, when introducing himself, that he was an admirer of the composer's music (p. 165); hence the humorous effect. (This is, by the way, a typically Maḥfūzian situation which occurs frequently in his realistic novels, and one is fascinated to observe how neatly this type of situation is assimilated into the symbolic context). In fact the humorous exchange is quickly followed by another esoteric saying, for the composer replies:

“You mustn't give in to disappointment. This remarkable man leads every one who seeks him quite a dance. In the good old days, it was so much easier; he used to stay in one place which we knew but today everything has changed.”²⁵

It is then of the essence of Maḥfūz's technique that many scenes, names, and utterances occur which have no direct symbolic reference.²⁶ In writing a double-layered story he is—unlike many modern novelists—adamant in maintaining the realistic texture of his story as such. In other words he sticks to the good old principle of the illusion of reality.

Maḥfūz's achievement in this story lies in the fact that he is able to recreate a general human experience in terms of rich local reality and tradition. The symbolism of the story is apparent, but this does not encroach upon its verisimilitude. The inner references are not artificially imposed on the outer narrative and there is a harmony between the two facets. If we compare the subtlety of “Za‘balāwī” with the crude symbolic patterns of such early Arabic works of fiction as Tawfīq al-Hakīm's ‘Awdat al-rūḥ (1933), for instance, we realize that Egyptian fiction has made impressive headway. “Za‘balāwī” marks a substantial step forward for Maḥfūz even in comparison with his novel ’Awlād Hāratinā, not only because the short story is more pithy and lyrical, but also because in it Maḥfūz has succeeded in crystallizing a major existential experience without lengthy allegorical diversions.

Notes

1. Dunyā ’Allāh, Dār Miṣr, Cairo 1963, pp. 158-175. An English translation of “Za‘balāwī” can be found in Denys Johnson-Davies' Modern Arabic Short Stories, O.U.P., London, 1967, pp. 137-147.

2. The three parts of the trilogy are Bayn al-qaṣrayn (1956), Qaṣr al-sawq (1957), and al-Sukkariyya (1957). An extensive analysis of this work by Père J. Jomier appears (in French) in MIDEO (Cairo) IV (1957), pp. 27-94.

3. The epithet ḥayy (‘alive’) is used at least four times in conjunction with Za‘balāwī's name. To an Arab reader this will be reminiscent of the ecstatic utterance ‘Allāh ḥayy, which is repeatedly pronounced by participants in ṣūfī sessions (majālis al-dhikr). See, e.g., Lane, Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians (1860), London (Everyman) 1963, p. 460.

4. See EI (old ed.), Vol. II, p. 896; R. A. Nicholson, The Mystics of Islam, London, 1914, pp. 104 ff.

5. Qaṣr al-shawq, Cairo, n.d., p. 375:

6. al-Sukkariyya, Cairo, n.d., p. 125:

7. The phonetic resemblances between Za‘balāwī and Jabalāwī might have been meant by Maḥfūz to be a further identification mark as to the nature of Za‘balāwī (‘Awlād Hāratinā appeared two years before Za‘balāwī.)

8. ‘Awlād Hāratinā, ch. 99; cf. Qaṣr al-sawq, pp. 390-1.

9. See E. al-Karrāṭ's article in al-Majalla (Cairo), January 1963, p. 18, where Maḥfūz is quoted as saying:

10. An adept in ṣūfī literature may remind us that the word dhawq (‘taste’) itself is an important term in the ṣūfī vocabulary, signifying the immediate mystical experience. Dhawq, according to Kamāl al-Dīn, is the first stage of wajd (‘ecstasy’). See IE (new ed.) ar. Dhawk.

11. I find this point worth stressing because of a certain tendency among some young Egyptian critics to interpret Maḥfūz's latest works of fiction not as stories but merely as concatenations of one-to-one symbols. One of these critics in an interpretative comment on “Za‘balāwī” (al-’Ādāb, Beirut, June 1963, pp. 43-4) finds it necessary to establish a symmetrical system of references. In so doing he even ascribes a definite reference to the book-seller (who is, I feel, an incidental figure). He stands, the critic thinks, for science, which had become divorced from metaphysical contemplation. The sprinkling of water by Za‘balāwī is interpreted by the same critic as representing Christian baptism. Such a far-fetched interpretation—intriguing as it may sometimes be—is, I feel, disastrous for the very nature of the lyrical - symbolic story. It tends to turn it into a studied allegory, thus suppressing the spontaneous human experience embodied in it. Furthermore, it turns the critic—and the reader in general—into a sort of detective, whose main preoccupation it is to dig up striking hidden references and then try to arrange them into a general pattern (or, still worse, to fit them into a preconceived thesis.)

    For if we are, in our story, to find one-to-one significance in the book-seller, why should we overlook other minor figures, such as the vendors of beans (fūl), and lupine, (turmus), the baladī presser (kawwā’ baladī), et. al. And since we have discovered a hidden reference to Christianity in the sprinkling of water why should we not be consistent and interpret the four cups of wine that the narrator drinks, as a hint to the four cups of wine the Jews drink on Passover eve recalling the miracles of God? And why, again, do we not persist and interpret the different names of people and places—for example, sayk Qamar (Qamar = ‘moon’); ḥānat al-Najma (‘the star tavern’); [ḥārat] ’umm al-Gulām (‘the parish of the Boy's mother’)—(the latter can with ease be interpreted as a further reference to Christianity!).