The Harafish (27 page)

“I'll do what we've agreed,” he said with forced cheerfulness. “The rest is just a dream.”

“What do you mean? I've had enough of these fatal dreams.”

He shuddered at her perception, born of a mother's instincts and love and fear together.

“It's nothing,” he mumbled evasively.

“Don't drive me crazy!” she cried passionately. “I'm perpetually sad. I've had to put up with more than a faithful wife should. You're my only hope. The one who's going to console me for my years of waiting. Wake me up from the long nightmare. We've been forced to live in this vile, underhand atmosphere. Our poison
will always be fed to us in sweetmeats. You've no need to fear overt hostility. But what you must be on your guard against are the sweet smiles, the pleasant talk, the false remedies, the interminable masks of sincerity.”

“I'm not stupid, mother,” he said, squirming under the impact of this onslaught.

“But you're innocent and innocent people are the natural prey of rogues.”

“He's got nothing to do with it.” The words slipped out, before he realized what he was saying.

“Rummana?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what it is. Have I become so cut off from my heart and soul that all I know about the most vital matter is random snippets of information that come my way?”

“I don't want to keep anything from you, but I know you have misgivings.”

“Be honest with me. This is killing me!”

He sighed and began pacing up and down the room, then came to a halt in front of her.

“Don't I have the right to think about glory?” he demanded.

Fearful thoughts assailed her. “Think of the consequences. That's what counts. Your grandfather Samaha dreamed of glory and now he's wandering the country like a tramp and nobody knows what's become of him. Tell me what your ideas of glory are, Aziz.”

In confessional tones he told her about his encounters with the employees. She listened to him, her face pale at first, yellow as death by the time he had finished.

“Your uncle Wahid will see it as deliberate provocation,” she observed in a faltering voice.

“I'm not stupid.”

“I can tell Rummana's in this somewhere.”

“He hasn't said a thing,” interrupted Aziz. “He's on Wahid's side. He's always cautioning me.”

“Don't trust him. The men are just repeating stuff that he's fed them. Have you talked to them about your plans?”

“Of course not, I told you before, I'm not stupid. I told them I wouldn't betray my uncle Wahid.”

“That's good. Did you say anything different to Rummana?”

“No. I pretended to agree with him.”

She gave a deep sigh and her eyes filled with tears. “Thank God.” Then fiercely, “They've given me some rope to play with. Now what you have to do is concentrate on your work. Get free of your father's enemy—his murderer!—and devote yourself to your work. They've given me some rope…”

51
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There was a lull presaging a storm. The expression in Aziz's eyes boded ill. Since his nephew had left childhood behind, Rummana had been waiting for the blow to fall. He had not succeeded in winning his confidence. Aziz had been friendly only as a polite response to his attempts at communication. Despite all his efforts to soften him up, he had progressed without faltering, and now he was ready to take his revenge.

“Uncle!” he addressed him one day.

This was the first time he had used the title and Rummana was convinced it was a bad sign.

“What, nephew?”

With an offensive calm which reminded him of his brother in some of his moods, Aziz said, “I think it would be a good idea if we split the business.”

Although he had expected this, expected it for a long time, his heart sank. “Really?” he stammered. “Of course you're free to do so. But why? Why fritter away our strength?”

“My mother wants to go into partnership with me.”

“She can. And we can still preserve the existing arrangement.”

“My father wanted it, as you know.”

“So he said one day, out of the blue, but he wasn't set on it, otherwise nothing would have stopped him.”

“What stopped him was his mysterious disappearance,” remarked Aziz coldly.

Rummana's heart missed a beat but he pretended not to notice
the barb and said, “He could have delayed his trip.” Then, patently irritated, “Don't believe everything you hear.”

With more boldness than he had shown previously, Aziz retorted, “I believe whatever's worth believing.”

“I repeat you're free to go,” said Rummana despondently, “but it's bad for both of us.”

“Not for me.”

This was another painful twist of the knife; he burned with resentment and thought to himself that if Aziz had really been his son, he would never have reached the point of being so scathing and hurtful to him. What could he do to restrain the devil in his heart that was bent on revenge? “The way you're talking doesn't become you,” he said aloud. “Won't you think about it for a bit?”

“It's all decided,” Aziz answered, as gently as he could.

“Even if I were to beg you to change your mind?” said Rummana despairingly.

“I'm sorry. I can't.”

“Is it because of your mother?”

“She wants to go into partnership with me, as I've said.”

“All this suspicion breeds a dislike which is based entirely on illusions.”

Aziz hesitated a little. “They're not illusions. The accounts are hardly convincing, and the partnership arrangements aren't favorable to me.”

“From now on you'll have as much power as you want!”

“You're wasting your time,” murmured Aziz in annoyance.

“This is hatred!” cried Rummana in a fury. “Vicious spite! The curse which has hounded the Nagi family!”

52
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Rummana went back home shattered to Raifa, and told her everything. “The seed of hatred has brought forth its poisoned fruit,” he concluded.

“Wahid's our only hope,” said Raifa, her face gripped by venom.

“But the cunning little devil hasn't fallen into the trap yet.”

“Don't wait for him to fall.”

“It's not as easy as you seem to think.” Then, coolly, “Your legacy is the only thing that can save us.”

“My legacy!”

“Aziza's going to give hers to her son.”

“That's because she's been priming him for revenge.”

“With what you inherited I can make a new start.”

“What about your money?” she demanded in surprise.

“There's not enough left to set up a respectable business,” he answered hopelessly.

“So it's all gone on gambling!” she exclaimed.

“This isn't the time for recriminations.”

“I didn't hoard my legacy like that snake, and you want me to squander what's left of it just so that I can end up on the streets with you?”

“I'll turn over a new leaf,” he said defiantly.

She laughed scornfully and his anger flared. “So I've no choice but to tell him he's my son.”

“Talk sense!” she shouted, enraged herself now. “Haven't you accepted that you're sterile yet?”

“You're the one who's sterile.”

“The midwife found nothing wrong with me.”

He went to strike her but she was ready to defend herself, like an angry lioness. Not convinced that he had backed down, she continued her invective. “Our enemies must be gloating. Perhaps it was your stupid fantasies about being a father that stopped you getting rid of him all these years!”

Shaking his head in amazement, he answered, “You think murder is some kind of pastime!”

At this point the maidservant entered to announce Sheikh Muhammad Tawakkul.

53
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Rummana waited for him in the reception room on the first floor. The man entered in an anxious flurry and Rummana's heart jumped uneasily.

He sat down and asked without preamble, “Have you made Wahid angry?”

“We're on excellent terms,” answered Rummana, shocked.

“I saw him just now in the bar, raging drunk, cursing and swearing and accusing you of setting Aziz against him.”

“That's a complete fabrication!” shouted Rummana in sudden panic.

“You'd better go and convince him of it as fast as you can.”

“How do you mean?” queried Rummana aggressively.

“If you don't hurry, there's no telling what might happen to you!”

“But he's my brother!”

“It's not unusual for brother to kill brother in this alley,” replied Tawakkul innocently.

Rummana swallowed agitatedly. “True,” he muttered.

“Sorry to alarm you, but you'd better get moving.”

54
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Rummana didn't dare confront Wahid when he was drunk, so he decided to wait till next morning. However, Ismail Qalyubi, imam of the little mosque, burst into the house at midnight with a warning from Wahid that if he set foot outdoors he'd be exposing himself to certain death.

Rummana realized that Aziz was the one who'd driven a wedge between himself and Wahid and rushed into his apartments, hurling abuse. The two were about to become embroiled in a violent punch-up. In desperation, Aziza confessed that she'd suspected Rummana of plotting against her son, and had expressed her fears to Wahid. Rummana turned his anger on her, and she screamed in his face, “Get out of my sight! You killed Qurra!”

The house erupted in a blaze of hatred and anger in full view of the servants.

Aziza and Aziz moved out immediately to the Bannan's house, leaving Rummana, Raifa, and Diya alone in the Nagi house.

Aziz took over the grain shop, restored it, and made business bloom again as it had in Qurra's day. Wahid lost all his misgivings
about Aziz, reassured by what Aziza had told him, visited him to wish him well, and publicly offered him his approval and protection. Aziz abandoned his dreams, sadly, half despising himself for it, and compensated by being good to his employees, agents, and customers, and any of the harafish who threw themselves on his mercy.

55
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Rummana cowered in the house, condemning himself to voluntary imprisonment, beleaguered by fear, his heart heavy with shame. He had gone through his and Raifa's money. Boredom was killing him. He escaped from it into drugs and drink, and took his anger out on the servants, the walls, the furniture, the mysteries of the unknown.

Relations between Raifa and him became more strained, and worsened from day to day. She despised his cowardice, his inactivity, his stupors brought on by drink and drugs, his noisy outbursts. As their quarreling grew more frequent, a mutual antipathy replaced the domestic harmony. Every time an argument flared up she asked him for a divorce, until one day he lost his head and gave her one. It was a foolhardy decision, since neither of them could do without the other's love; but rage makes people mad, pride makes them outrageous, and obstinacy can become a chronic sickness. As if each wanted to establish that the other was sterile, Raifa married a relative almost immediately after the divorce, whereupon Rummana married one of the servant girls. But they soon found out almost for sure that they were both sterile. Rummana married a second, third, and fourth wife until he had drunk the cup of despair to the last drop.

He and Raifa each lived in hell, in a world of tedium.

56
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One morning a stranger arrived in the alley. His head was swathed in a black turban, his body in a purple cloak, and he was clearly blind, tapping his way along with the help of a stick. He had a
white beard and an impressive brow. People regarded him indifferently and left him to his own devices, some wondering what had brought him there.

When he had progressed a little way along the alley he called out, “Hello there!”

Sadiq Abu Taqiya, owner of the bar, answered him. “What do you want?”

“Lead me to Khidr Sulayman al-Nagi's house,” he said in a melancholy voice.

Sadiq looked hard at his face. It was like a vision. The past rushed in on him. “Merciful God!” he shouted in amazement. “Master Samaha!”

“God bless you,” said the blind man gratefully.

People rushed forward, with Wahid, Aziz, Muhammad Tawakkul, and Ismail Qalyubi leading the way. They embraced the newcomer feverishly, uttering expressions of welcome.

“This is a happy day, father.”

“A day of justice, grandfather.”

“A day of light, master.”

“God bless you. God bless you all,” repeated Samaha, his face lighting up with joy.

Everyone wanted to invite him home, but he said obstinately, “Khidr's house is my house.”

The news spread. The merchants called out from their shops and the harafish congregated around their shacks and derelict buildings. The street rang with cheers, then a chorus of joyful trilling broke out from the women at the windows and wooden lattices.

“Glory be to God!” cried Sadiq Abu Taqiya. “No absence is eternal, no injustice everlasting.”

57
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Samaha sat cross-legged on a divan. Wahid, Rummana, and Aziz sat facing him on cushions. Thus, they were united in specious calm, side by side like balm and poison in an herbalist's workshop,
the rivalries temporarily blotted out in the presence of the suffering father, martyr of purity.

“We've prepared a bath and food for you,” said Wahid.

“Not straightaway,” murmured Samaha gently. “Let me set my mind at rest first.”

He moved his head in an uneasy gesture. “Where's Khidr?”

“Only God is everlasting,” sighed Wahid.

His face clouded for a moment, then he asked, “And his wife, Diya?”

“In her apartments. She's off in her own world.”