The Harafish (20 page)

“Now you really have to go,” said Khidr.

He felt stifled by resentment at the injustice of it.

“You must lie low for fifteen years,” Khidr went on.

“The authorities will be after you,” said Radwan, “and so will your enemies. Watch out especially for Hamouda, Dagla, Antar, and Farid. They were the first to testify against you.”

He groaned. When would he be on his feet again? When would the pain grow less? When would he forget that he had been unable to save Mahalabiyya? When would he have his revenge? How would he escape the hangman's rope?

The Nagis were subjected to hostile treatment. Even the poorest, most insignificant members of the family suffered. Lads threw mud at Khidr. A cart loaded with grain was stolen from outside the shop. They began barricading themselves in their houses at nightfall. But Khidr was not too pessimistic. “They'll come around in the end,” he said. “Money'll do the trick.”

21
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Once he was completely recovered, his heart beat with new life. He began to think about the future and make plans. There was nothing to look forward to, but he wasn't beaten. A love of life stirred inside him once more. He felt inspired, full of desire, ready to resist and survive.

22
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When he crossed the Nile he believed he had moved to another country. His face was almost hidden behind a flowing beard and a headcloth worn low on his forehead. He changed his name to Badr al-Saidi, said he came from Upper Egypt, and made a living selling dates, fenugreek, and lentils. He lived in a basement room in Bulaq and was known for his pleasant manners.

A vision of the hangman's rope was always before him, a constant reminder to him that his life hung in the balance. He knew death was lurking, demons dogging his footsteps, and he began to keep a record of the passing days in a private journal and to register all his business transactions. His old world vanished. His family, the people of the alley, his desire to be chief, his lost love, his burning hopes, faded into the past. All he had left was exile, work, and piety.

At first he was lonely in Bulaq. Certainly it had many familiar features: a fountain, a trough, a Quran school, a small mosque, a sheikh. But the people knew nothing of the great covenant of the Nagis and his arrival aroused little curiosity. Bulaq was a river port where numerous sailing boats docked each day. It was thronged
with strangers, either passing through or coming to settle. For this reason people fleeing from the law would not take refuge there, and strangers did not cause disquiet. Its network of streets and alleyways covered a large area, unlike his own alley, hidden and cut off from the outside world. A sense of exile and loss grew inside him, but at least it was a secure kind of exile. He had unlimited time to examine his life, study his plans, nurture his constant desire for revenge and justice. So the great dreamer sat in his little shop, treating his customers kindly, protected by their trust, content to earn an honest living, and confronting the unknown without fear.

“It's rare to find someone as honest as you,” commented the sheikh one day.

“Here perhaps,” he answered politely.

“I'm curious to know why you left Upper Egypt.”

He answered suavely, but his heart was beating: “You wouldn't ask if you came from there!”

The sheikh laughed and Badr went on, “Anyway, my ancestors were from Bulaq.”

“It's good when a man feels drawn to his roots,” remarked the sheikh, going off with a package crammed full of his purchases.

23
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There was a girl on the other side of the alleyway. She was always there. Her name was Mahasin and she sold liver from a portable stall which she could carry herself without much trouble. It consisted of a wooden board on a cylindrical stand made of palm stalks woven together with plaited leaves. Calves' liver and lambs' liver were neatly arranged on it, around a pair of scales and a meat cleaver. The girl was tall, with well-rounded limbs and hazel eyes, as attractive as she was hot-tempered and sharp-tongued.

The stranger longed for company to dispel his loneliness and soothe his anxious heart. He began watching her with interest as she worked, fascinated by her energy and ferocity. All the youths were after her, but she defended herself unhesitatingly with her
sharp claws and virulent tongue. This was better than submission, but why had nobody asked to marry her?

He developed an appetite for liver, conscious that he was taking a path strewn with invisible obstacles, driven by a force within himself as much as by what was on the other side of the lane. Mahasin weighed him a pound of liver, wrapped it up, and handed it to him, saying simply, “Here you are, Mr. Beard!”

He was pleased by her teasing and took it as a friendly greeting. With her slim figure, well-shaped limbs, and dark coloring she reminded him of his poor lost Mahalabiyya; he remembered the pitiful way he had failed to save her and all the miseries of that sad slice of his past. But he still enjoyed being alive. Perhaps he had long experience of making the best of it. Whenever death cast its shadow over him, he clung more fiercely on to life.

Meanwhile Mahasin came to him for lentils, beans, and fenugreek. Here you are, Mr. Beard. Give me some of that, Mr. Beard. Here you are, Mahasin, you jewel. He never exceeded the bounds of decorum with her. Perhaps she knew how to read his eyes. Perhaps she was drawn to his good manners, which set him apart from other men.

On both sides of the alley, and in an atmosphere that was above suspicion, a profound affection grew.

24
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One evening after the prayer he tried to find out more about her background from the local imam. “Does she live alone, master?”

“No. With her mother who's old and blind now.”

“Is that her only relation?”

“Her father was killed in a brawl. She's got a brother in prison.”

“I'd say she's in her twenties. Why isn't she married?”

“Her mother had a bad reputation,” said the imam apologetically.

“But is the girl…?”

“Irreproachable,” interrupted the imam with conviction.

What recommended her to him was the fact that other men had nothing to do with her: a stranger and a fugitive like him would have been ill-equipped to compete with rival suitors. Marriage would give him links with the place and earn him people's confidence. She was better than a girl with a family who would want to know everything about him. Most importantly, why not admit that he desired her with all the wild energy of his youth?

25
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He seized the opportunity of her presence in his shop, encouraged by her cheerful and coquettish mood that day, to ask her, “What would you think, Mahasin, if a man asked you to marry him?”

She looked at him with interest. Interest which she wrapped around in a radiant, mocking glance.

“Does such a madman exist?”

“Yes. A man of flesh and blood who gets by with God's help.”

Their eyes met in calm contentment, then in a burst of merriment she demanded, “Does he have a beard like a sheepskin?”

“That's him.”

“What shall I do with his beard?”

“It's tame. Completely harmless,” he laughed.

Her face betrayed her pleasure, but she went off without uttering another word. He remembered Mahalabiyya and was filled with sadness.

26
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The engagement was announced and the wedding took place a few months later.

Although the couple had no family, neighbors and customers flocked to the celebration. Badr al-Saidi spared no expense and the wedding procession went off around the neighborhood without incident under the protection of the local clan chief.

A flat was made ready for them, containing a bedroom and a
single living room, and Mahasin and her mother made a respectable contribution toward furnishing it.

Samaha was happy with his choice although his pleasure was marred a little by the presence of his mother-in-law, who occupied the main room day and night. She was old and blind, but her withered features still had traces of beauty. She had a vicious tongue and spat out her words like bullets, with no idea of trying to be polite, even during their honeymoon period. However, their love in its first flowering swept aside all obstacles.

27
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Mahasin became a full-time housewife. She loved her husband, and discovered that he was better off than he chose to appear. When he was at home he also looked much more handsome than outdoors.

“If you shaved off your beard, you'd be the best-looking man ever,” she declared one day.

“It's the secret of my success,” he replied evasively.

“Use it instead of a broom, girl!” interrupted his mother-in-law with a bawdy laugh.

He couldn't find it in him to like her or overlook her past. “I'll agree if we can use it to sweep you out of the house!” he retorted sharply.

She seethed with anger. “You want to keep your eye on him,” she shouted. “He's a bad lot.”

He looked at her with hatred, silently numbering her among the misfortunes which hounded him.

28
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Even Mahasin did not escape the old woman's poisoned arrows. She had a spiteful nature, always believed the worst, and would frequently accuse her daughter of maltreating her: “You two get all the delicacies. I just get the leftovers.”

“You eat exactly the same food as us,” said Mahasin.

“Liar! You can't hide the smell from me. You're as crooked as your husband!”

“What's this got to do with me?” asked Samaha angrily.

“You're the source of all the trouble.”

“Give me patience! This can't go on much longer!”

“Don't count on it! You'll go before me,” shrieked the old woman.

“We'll be in different places anyway.”

She cackled noisily. “I bet you murdered your father in Upper Egypt and came here to escape the rope.”

He trembled with pent-up dislike and anger, longing to brain her.

29
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All the same, he was genuinely happy with Mahasin and found refuge from his old worries in her arms. She returned his feelings and seemed content with him. Of course he realized from the beginning that she was not going to be a good, obedient wife. She was bold, impetuous, sure of herself, and her humor was sometimes cruel. She took excessive care of herself, spent hours in the bath, perfumed herself with essence of carnation, but dressed in a way that was almost vulgar. He thought this was one of her charms but couldn't bear any stranger to look at her. This was the reason for their first serious quarrel.

“Don't lean out of the window looking like that,” he said one day.

“I've worked on the street all my life,” she answered irritably.

“And you had no shame.”

“And you saw how I didn't let anyone insult me!”

“Didn't I tell you he had an evil mind?” interrupted the old woman.

“Shut up,” he snapped.

“God protect you from a father-killer,” she wailed.

He turned away from her, shaking with anger, and said to Mahasin, “She's encouraging you to be immoral.”

“There's no chance of that,” she said, her annoyance growing.

“In this matter, I demand complete obedience from you.”

“I'm not a child, or a servant.”

He lost his self-restraint. “I'll throw you out of the window,” he yelled.

“I'll stuff your head down the toilet.”

“Well said!” shouted her mother.

“Don't you dare ignore my orders.”

The quarrel stopped there and was forgotten by the next day. That evening she told him she was going to be a mother.

30
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His mother-in-law died a strange death: she fell from the window overlooking the interior courtyard and her skull shattered. Perhaps it was just as well for Badr that he was at work at the time. All the arrangements went without a hitch and the dead woman was committed to the ground. Badr gave her a good funeral out of respect for Mahasin and as befitted his standing in the community. He felt constrained all the same, because of the deep-seated hostility that had existed between him and the dead woman.

Mahasin wept bitterly.

“Don't cry. You're pregnant,” he said.

“Don't you care about her?” she asked reproachfully.

He said nothing.

“Don't bother to hide your joy,” she stormed.

“I respect the dead,” he protested.

Mahasin said it shouldn't be forgotten that her mother had had many virtues. She loved her daughter, despite her nagging which was just superficial, and worshiped her husband. When he died in the prime of his youth, and then when her son was sentenced to life imprisonment, she was completely shattered. She became addicted to opium, her behavior changed, and she was accused of everything under the sun. To add to her troubles, she went blind, then because she had nowhere else to go ended up in the house of a man who made it plain that she wasn't welcome! In her youth she was the most beautiful girl in Bulaq. She could have
married a rich butcher but had chosen Mahasin's father instead. There was nothing commonplace about her.

As Samaha listened to this requiem, he thought of his grandmother, Saniyya, running off with a water carrier young enough to be her son, and wondered sadly where she was living, how the years had treated her and his father, Bikr. What shame and sorrow lay buried in the past!

31
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The summer came with its stifling heat. He loved its light, and was not troubled by the burning rays of the sun. He savored the balmy evenings, adored the dinners of mulukhiyya, okra, melon, and watermelon and took pleasure in bathing every morning at sunrise.

Mahasin gave birth to a boy. He was filled with joy and pride. He would have liked to call him Shams al-Din but was afraid the name might endanger his own safety, so agreed to call him Rummana after Mahasin's father. His business thrived, he grew prosperous, the gold bangles multiplied on Mahasin's arms and life looked good. Each day he recorded the slow passage of time in his secret journal; on these occasions he would always remember the hangman's rope and wonder if he was destined to escape it indefinitely; he would think about his family and the people of his alley and wonder how the passing years had treated them, and recall his enemies: al-Fulali, Dagla, Antar, Hamouda the pimp. Would he beat them one day and restore the covenant of the Nagis to his alley? Would he be able to listen to the anthems again?