The Time and the Place Read Online Free Page A

“I didn’t realize you were afflicted. I’m very sorry….”
    “You wouldn’t let me speak,” I said irritably.
    “What a pity! He was sitting on this chair beside you the whole time. He was playing with a string of jasmine petals he had around his neck, a gift from one of his admirers, then, taking pity on you, he began to sprinkle some water on your head to bring you around.”
    “Does he meet you here every night?” I asked, my eyes notleaving the doorway through which the vendor of prawns had left.
    “He was with me tonight, last night, and the night before that, but before that I hadn’t seen him for a month.”
    “Perhaps he will come tomorrow,” I answered with a sigh.
    “Perhaps.”
    “I am willing to give him any money he wants.”
    Wanas answered sympathetically, “The strange thing is that he is not open to such temptations, yet he will cure you if you meet him.”
    “Without charge?”
    “Merely on sensing that you love him.”
    The vendor of prawns returned, having failed in his mission.
    I recovered some of my energy and left the bar, albeit unsteadily. At every street corner I called out “Zaabalawi!” in the vague hope that I would be rewarded with an answering shout. The street boys turned contemptuous eyes on me till I sought refuge in the first available taxi.
    The following evening I stayed up with Wanas al-Damanhouri till dawn, but the sheikh did not put in an appearance. Wanas informed me that he would be going away to the country and would not be returning to Cairo until he had sold the cotton crop.
    I must wait, I told myself; I must train myself to be patient. Let me content myself with having made certain of the existence of Zaabalawi, and even of his affection for me, which encourages me to think that he will be prepared to cure me if a meeting takes place between us.
    Sometimes, however, the long delay wearied me. I would become beset by despair and would try to persuade myself to dismiss him from my mind completely. How many weary people in this life know him not or regard him as a mere myth! Why, then, should I torture myself about him in this way?
    No sooner, however, did my pains force themselves upon me than I would again begin to think about him, asking myself when I would be fortunate enough to meet him. The fact that I ceased to have any news of Wanas and was told he had gone to live abroad did not deflect me from my purpose; the truth of the matter was that I had become fully convinced that I had to find Zaabalawi.
    Yes, I have to find Zaabalawi.

The Conjurer Made Off with the Dish
    “The time has come for you to be useful,” said my mother to me. And she slipped her hand into her pocket, saying, “Take this piaster and go off and buy some beans. Don’t play on the way and keep away from the carts.”
    I took the dish, put on my clogs, and went out, humming a tune. Finding a crowd in front of the bean seller, I waited until I discovered a way through to the marble counter.
    “A piaster’s worth of beans, mister,” I called out in my shrill voice.
    He asked me impatiently, “Beans alone? With oil? With cooking butter?”
    I did not answer, and he said roughly, “Make way for someone else.”
    I withdrew, overcome by embarrassment, and returned home defeated.
    “Returning with the dish empty?” my mother shouted at me. “What did you do—spill the beans or lose the piaster, you naughty boy?”
    “Beans alone? With oil? With cooking butter?—you didn’t tell me,” I protested.
    “Stupid boy! What do you eat every morning?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You good-for-nothing, ask him for beans with oil.”
    I went off to the man and said, “A piaster’s worth of beans with oil, mister.”
    With a frown of impatience he asked, “Linseed oil? Vegetable oil? Olive oil?”
    I was taken aback and again made no answer.
    “Make way for someone else,” he shouted at me.
    I returned in a rage to my mother, who called out in astonishment, “You’ve come back