Season of Migration to the North Read Online Free PDF Page A

to everyone in the village. I am nothing other than that — I have nothing
to hide.’
    I went home, my head buzzing with thoughts, convinced that
some story lay behind Mustafa, something he did not want to divulge. Had my
ears betrayed me the night before? The English poetry he had recited was real
enough. I had neither been drunk, nor yet asleep. The image of him sitting in
that chair, legs spread out and the glass held in both hands, was clear and unequivocable.
Should I speak to my father? Should I tell Mahjoub? Perhaps the man had killed
someone somewhere and had fled from prison? Perhaps he — but what secrets are
there in this village? Perhaps he had lost his memory? It is said that some
people are stricken by amnesia following an accident. Finally I decided to give
him two or three days and if he did not provide me with the truth, then I would
tackle him about it.
     
    I
did not have long to wait, for Mustafa came to see me that very same evening.
On finding my father and brother with me, he said that he wanted to speak to me
alone. I got up and we walked off together.
    ‘Will you come to my house tomorrow evening?’ he said to me.
‘Id like to talk to you.’
    When I returned my father asked me, ‘What’s Mustafa want?’ I
told him he wanted me to explain a contract for the ownership of some land he
had in Khartoum.
    Just before sunset I went to him and found him alone, seated
in front of a pot of tea. He offered me some but I refused for I was impatient
to hear the story; he must surely have decided to tell the truth. He offered me
a cigarette, which I accepted.
    I scrutinized his face as he slowly blew out the smoke; it appeared
calm and strong. I dismissed the idea that he was a killer — the use of
violence leaves a mark on the face that the eye cannot miss. As for his having
lost his memory this was a possibility Finally; as Mustafa began to talk, I saw
the mocking phantom around his eyes, more distinct than ever before, something
as perceptible as a flash of lightning.
    ‘I shall say things to you I’ve said to no one before. I
found no reason for doing so until now I have decided to do so lest your
imagination run away with you — since you have studied poetry.’ He laughed so
as to soften the edge of scorn that was evident in his voice.
    ‘I was afraid you’d go and talk to the others, that you’d
tell them I wasn’t the man I claimed, which would — would cause a certain
amount of embarrassment to them and to me. I thus have one request to make of
you — that you promise me on your honour, that you swear to me, you won’t
divulge to a soul anything of what I’m going to tell you tonight.’
    He gave me a searching look and I said to him: ‘That depends
upon what you say to me. How can I promise when I know nothing about you?’
    ‘I swear to you,’ he said, ‘that nothing of what I shall tell
you will affect my presence in this village. I’m a man in full possession of my
faculties, peaceful, and wanting only good for this village and its people.’
    I will not conceal from you the fact that I hesitated. But
the moment was charged with potentialities and my curiosity was boundless. The
long and short of it was that I promised on oath, at which Mustafa pushed a
bundle of papers towards me, indicating that I should look at them. I opened a
sheet of paper and found it to be his birth certificate: Mustafa Sa’eed, born
in Khartoum 16 August 1898, father Sa’eed Othman (deceased), mother Fatima Abdussadek.
After that I opened his passport: the name, date and place of birth were the
same as in the birth certificate. The profession was given as ‘Student’. The
date of issue of the passport was 1916 in Cairo and it had been renewed in London
in 1926. There was also another passport, a British one, issued in London in
1929. Turning over the pages, I found it was much stamped: French, German,
Chinese and Danish. All this whetted my imagination in an extraordinary manner.
I could not go on