Classic Short Fiction: ‘On New Year’s Eve’

On New Year’s Eve

Ibrahim Abdelkader Al-Mazni

Translated by Amr El-Zawawy

The three of them were struck with astonishment. They stood—as still as if they were frozen—ears cocked, eyes fixed, breaths bated. It was the night of the new year, its very eve, and Hamed had made ready to go out. He had put on his evening clothes, switched on the radio, and begun pacing the room while he waited for his neighbor to tap on the open window . . . so that he might accompany her to an evening of dinner, dancing, and merriment. At that moment, the radio was broadcasting a carefully chosen drama, but Hamed paid it no mind. He wanted only to drown out the intermittent clamor of the street with a greater, nearer noise—one that never ceased, never faltered—one he could grow accustomed to, one that might relax his nerves with its steady rhythm, allowing him to think: about his affair with his neighbor, or about what he ought to do to persuade his reactionary father to accept the reality of life in this new age. Not that he needed his father. Still, he did not wish to spoil things between them, nor add to the burden of his father’s years the further weight of disappointment—not if he could help it.

At that very moment, his father entered with the key Hamed had given him, so he could come and go as he pleased. Hamed did not hear him; he was completely absorbed in thought, and the radio was far too loud to allow him to hear the sound of a door opening or closing. The man, barely having stepped through the door, stopped in bewilderment, for he heard women laughing and men chattering. He was a simple, rustic soul, pious and devout. He knew the radio and listened reverently to its recitations of the Holy Quran. He might occasionally listen to a few musical pieces, yes, but never in his life had he listened to a play being acted out, nor departed from his habit of early sleep save on the rarest of nights. If he now stood perplexed, disapproving, he was surely excused.

He could make nothing of the voices that reached him, nor grasp the meaning of the words. The announcer was describing the movement of a roulette wheel after the bets were placed: the whirling of the wheel, the hush of anticipation as the ball prepared to settle upon the lucky number. But the man did not know this was an announcer describing to listeners what they could not see; he took him to be one of Hamed’s companions, in a gathering that mixed all sorts of men and women. Yes, women, there could be no doubt. Was this not a woman’s voice saying: “Hurry, Mimi… hurry… between seven and eight…”?

And here a man’s voice cried: “No, no, no! That belongs to Loulou! Yes, I saw it happen—the bey shifted the cards with his palm without anyone noticing!”

And now the young woman joined the talk once more, saying: “Merci, my darling . . . Lean in, merci.”

Then the first man again—certainly the same one, for the voice was unmistakable—said: “Think nothing of it. I saw everything. And if you’ll permit a piece of advice from an experienced man, my advice is to stop now. A mistake like that is usually a sign that a player’s luck has run out.”

Playing… advice… luck… men and women… What could all of this mean? The poor man stood there, pondering. He pondered also whether he should go in and discover the truth, whatever it was, or leave and let his son be. But how could he leave his son? And how could he go in, with strange women inside?

Nor, at that moment, was this simple father the only bewildered soul. There was another man, of a very different sort, who had found the kitchen door ajar. He had slipped in on tiptoe, hoping to spare the owner of the house—and himself, too. But he had barely reached the hallway when the tumult rising from the living room struck his ears. Unlike the father, he was not simple. He instantly realized that people were gambling inside. Amazement nailed him to the spot. He had thought the house empty; now, it seemed full or even packed. His problem was this: the presence of so many players increased the chance of profit tonight. The cards would be lighter to carry, easier to hide, and he would be less likely to be arrested. Yet the greater the crowd, the greater the danger. What was he to do? Take the safer course and leave? Or yield to temptation and stay—especially since it was likely they were drinking, and soon would be drunk?

But the matter was out of his hands. For just then the milkman arrived, stood at the kitchen door as usual, and called out in one long stretched word, “Miiilk!” The man startled, leapt, spun around. The milkman said, “The milk—do you want milk tonight?”

The poor fellow walked toward him as if struck on the head. The milkman asked again, “Do you want milk or what? Answer me!”

The man came to himself and whispered, “Hush… hush!”

“What do you mean, hush? Do you want milk? And who are you, anyway?”

He was suddenly inspired to say, “I’m the new servant.”

“Well then, why didn’t you say so! How much do you want?”

“One bowl.”

The milkman handed him a bowl and waited. The man shot nervous glances toward the hall. The milkman said, “Well? Bring the payment then. Let me go.”

“Bring… what?”

“The price of the bowl.”

Again inspired, he said, “In the morning. We have guests. I can’t call the master now.”

The milkman left. The man wiped his sweat and steadied his breath. He thought it best to slip out behind the milkman and let God seal this cursed night. But fate had prepared him yet another, harsher surprise.

The young lady had arrived, and she tapped on the window frame. Hamed hurried to her, bent over the window to kiss her, and straightened up to tell her he would be right out. But she stopped him and asked, “Who’s with you?” She pointed toward the hallway, for she had seen a shadow slip inside. Hamed was astonished by her question and assured her that no one was there. Then he looked where she was looking; he fancied he heard noises. “Wait,” he said, and went out. But she did not wait. She was a practical girl, loved Hamed, and read detective novels. Her imagination bolted forward, conjuring danger. She ran to fetch the nearest policeman, dragging him by the arm—for his pace was slow, and she wished to fly.

Meanwhile, Hamed had gone out and found his father standing behind the apartment door. “Good heavens, we thought you were a thief,” he said.

His father asked, “Who’s inside?” Hamed thought this must be the question of the night for everyone. He laughed and said, “No one… why don’t you come in? Why stand like that?”

He then remembered the girl at the window and did not know how to explain her presence to his father. True, he could say she was his neighbor, and that they had stopped to exchange greetings. But his father was conservative, and Hamed wanted to introduce her properly. He hadn’t long to think. He heard movement in the kitchen, walked toward it in surprise, and pressed the light switch.

There stood our friend—the man torn between staying and fleeing—with his hand stretched toward the bowl of milk. For he had decided he might as well drink it up before leaving, so he wouldn’t “walk away from the feast empty-handed,” as the saying goes.

The man’s hand froze. He neither reached for the bowl nor retreated. Hamed asked, “What are you doing here?” The man stammered. “Hungry!”

“Oh, that’s it? And how did you get in?”

“I saw the milkman enter. When he left… I called, but no one answered. So I came in.”

Hamed was inclined to believe him. He was in a hurry, after all—he had left the girl waiting. “Fine, eat and go. Take it. Eat it on the stairs.” He shoved the man out and shut the door.

He was about to return when he heard footsteps, but he ignored them and went back to the room. His father stood looking at the radio and laughing. Hamed did not understand. He went to the window and looked out—no one there. He turned to his father, intending to ask, but decided not to.

A knock came at the kitchen door, and a soft voice called his name. He ran to open it—and found before him a towering policeman with waxed moustaches and his young lady beside him. Between them was the man holding the empty bowl. Hamed stumbled back. “What is this?”

Safiya said, “I was right… thank God!”

Hamed, bewildered, said, “Please… come in.” He stepped aside. “But why the policeman?”

She replied as she entered, “Why? You ask why? Don’t you know? A thief, my dear!”

He nearly clapped his hand over her mouth, but his father had already come out; there was no point now.

Hamed said, “Baba… This is Safiya, our neighbor. Ahmad Bey’s daughter… No, he’s not a thief. I gave him the bowl so he could eat…”

The policeman said, “If that’s the case, there’s no need for me. Good evening.”

The man left, glaring at Safiya. She said, “A pleasure to meet you, Uncle.”

The old man murmured, eyes lowered. Hamed said, “We. . . I mean Safiya and I . . . We are . . . engaged. We’ve agreed to marry . . . pending your approval, of course.”

Safiya leaned toward him, whispering in his ear, “Say you agree.”

“I am in a state of ablution,” he said. “Keep a little distance.”

She laughed. “If you don’t agree, I’ll break your ablution myself.”

He panicked and rose at once. “No, no—careful! It’s cold, and I’m a weak old man. And I need to perform the ‘isha prayer.”

“Say first that you agree,” she said. “Or else . . . hmm.”

The man waved his arm. “What business is it of mine? You two are splitting my head. Where is the prayer rug, Hamed?”

Ibrahim Abdelkader Al-Mazni (1889–1949) was born in Cairo into a relatively affluent family, but experienced financial hardship after his father’s early death. In 1906, he enrolled in Cairo’s Teacher’s College. It attracted many future literary figures, including Abd Al-Rahman Shukri, who became a close associate and major influence on al-Mazni. During this period, al-Mazni also formed connections with Abbas al-Aqqad and Muhammad al-Sibai. Together, they formed Al-Diwan School of Literature. Al-Mazni began writing prose in the mid-1920s and completed his first novel, Ibrahim al-Katib (Ibrahim the Writer), in 1943. That same year, he released a sequel titled Ibrahim al-Thani (Ibrahim the Second), followed shortly by three more novels in rapid succession.

Amr El-Zawawy is Professor of Linguistics and Translation, Faculty of Education, Alexandria University, Alexandria, Egypt. He has also practiced written and simultaneous translation for more than 20 years now. He contributed important articles to different international scholarly journals, including but not limited to Babel (John Benjamins), Journal of Psycholinguistics, California Linguistic Notes and Advances in Language and Literary Studies. He published a number of books and translations, including Studies in Contrastive Linguistics and Stylistics (Novika, USA), Exploring the Cognitive Processes of Simultaneous Interpreting (Lexington Books, USA), Seminal Studies in Linguistics and Translation (Cambridge Scholars, UK), and Selections from Arabic Poetry (Kindle, Amazon).