The Harafish (21 page)

32
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After Rummana, Mahasin gave birth to two more sons, Qurra and Wahid. Badr had become an important member of the community, respected by all honest men and enjoying special status in the eyes of the poor.

Mahasin never stopped caring for her appearance, and spent hours bathing as usual. Motherhood did not distract her from her femininity or her love of physical pleasure. She developed a passion
for hashish and it became a regular habit. The first time she tried it for fun with her husband, who smoked every evening, then she willingly abandoned herself to its soft, greedy caresses.

The days and years went by and Badr began to believe his future was secure, and his fears evaporated—or almost.

33
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Strange news reached Bulaq: the clan chief had struck up a friendship with a man called al-Fulali. Badr was dumbfounded; suddenly a yawning pit opened in front of him and his world was shaken to its foundations. He asked the local sheikh for more details. “It's good news,” the man said. “It means they'll combine their resources.”

Badr pretended to be pleased and the sheikh went on, “There'll be a few celebrations and good nights out.”

“Let's hope so.”

“Believe me! They'll exchange visits and that means singing, dancing, and drinking for us!”

“It should be good,” murmured Badr, dry-mouthed.

A serpent had slunk into his tranquil home. Such a possibility had never occurred to him. He had always thought of the Nile as an impassable barrier. But al-Fulali and his gang would cross it, make merry in the quarter. He would be invited to the celebrations. He had escaped the rope by little more than seven years. There was no hiding the reality from searching eyes. He had to decide what to do.

A few days before this ritual visit he pretended to be ill. Even Mahasin believed him and stood in for him in the shop.

34
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On the night of al-Fulali's visit, he crouched at the window, peering through a crack in the shutters.

The world had a different look. Everything gave off strange signals. The festive lamps shone in the dark, mocking him like the
faces of enchanted creatures. The remains of his peace and tranquillity lay heaped up in the garbage cans. The alley heaved with dancing figures. The smell of fish frying filled the air. It was winter. Why hadn't the rain come? Or the thunder and lightning and rough winds? The sound of flutes and drums rose in the air. Men cheered, women trilled in celebration. The allies' cavalcade was approaching, led by prancing horses with silver crescents jingling merrily on their harnesses. Here was the most hateful creature on God's earth. Al-Fulali. Ugly, mean, overbearing. Linking arms with our chief, flashing his gold teeth as he smiled this way and that. After him came Dagla, Antar, Farid. Where was Hamouda? In prison or dead, most likely. All the rascals gathered together here. Why hadn't fate intervened? It was no use being bitter. They were moving away but the racket was spreading. It was a riotous night, debauched, concealing unspecified agonies, threatening every evil imaginable, blessed by the angel of death. The gallows rope encircled it, strangling his dreams. Those most dear to him—Mahasin, Rummana, Qurra, Wahid—became phantoms. They threatened to disappear at any moment. Then pitch-darkness would descend. Lethal despair. Total emptiness.

35
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He went back to work and received the well-wishers come to congratulate him on his recovery. Cowering indoors was unwholesome, stirred up fears, made sorrows grow out of all proportion. Activity brought comfort. Dealing with people face-to-face set his blood moving again and prompted feelings of courage. His enemies had disappeared and death no longer hovered. The wine of life was on his tongue. He cast his fate to the winds and his spirit was refreshed. It seemed possible to hope again, and feel inspired. Take heart, Badr, don't be afraid. Hide behind your beard and have faith in the Lord's justice.

He felt more passionately bound to his wife and children, and to food, drink, worship, life itself. He even loved the clouds of winter. He delighted in everything around him, including the
sounds of people swearing at each other. He was only sorry he could not tell his children stories of Ashur and Shams al-Din, that they would grow up ignorant of their blessed roots, of the dream, of Saint Khidr's friendship. Would Rummana ever know that he was a Nagi? “Make the most of every new day and don't have any regrets,” he told himself.

36
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He was writing an entry in his private diary when something made him look up. Muhammad Tawakkul, sheikh of his native alley, was passing inches away from the door of his shop. He gave it a brief glance as he went by. Samaha's heart jumped with shock, and terror cut through him like an ax. Had the man seen him? Did he remember him?

He noticed him from a distance sitting in the local sheikh's shop. The two men were talking and laughing, Muhammad letting his eye roam at will over the passersby. This was certain death. The man would be only too happy to collaborate with the authorities, to gladden al-Fulali's heart with the news of his arrest. Even if the sheikh had been blind, Samaha would not have felt safe from that day on. Bulaq had become legal territory for his enemies.

News went around that Muhammad Tawakkul wanted to marry the daughter of the scrap metal dealer. He had probably accompanied al-Fulali the first time and seen her and he fancied her as a second wife. Now he would be as much at home in Bulaq as in al-Husayn. Bulaq was no longer a safe hiding place.

37
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Mahasin gave him a searching glance. “What's on your mind?”

The children were all asleep and she was hovering around him, beautifully dressed and made-up as usual, sensing a problem.

“Several things,” he said.

“Business?” she asked apprehensively.

“Business is fine, but I have to go away for a while.”

“To Upper Egypt?”

“Maybe.”

“But what for?”

Ignoring her question, he said, “I'll be away for a few years.”

“A few years! Take us with you.”

“I'd love to, but it's impossible.”

She frowned suspiciously.

“It's not a business trip. I'm running away,” he said.

“Running away?”

“I'll tell you a story of flight and injustice, Mahasin!”

38
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He said goodbye to his wife and children and slipped out of the house shortly before dawn. By early morning Mahasin was standing in the shop and had embarked on a new life. She was depressed and ill at ease with her secret, uncertain whether to believe her husband's tale. He had deceived her for years. Perhaps he had his reasons, but still he had deceived her. So was he finally telling the truth, or just more lies?

The sheikh dropped in and asked after her husband, curious to know what was keeping him at home.

“He's gone to Upper Egypt,” she said miserably.

“I spoke to him yesterday and he didn't mention it,” said the man in surprise.

“Well, he's gone,” she said listlessly.

“He's very ambitious. But you're not yourself, Mahasin.”

“I'm fine, sir.”

“When's he coming back?”

She maintained a gloomy silence.

“Is it another woman?” he inquired cautiously.

“Certainly not.”

“How long is he away for?”

“Several years.”

“Good grief!”

“That's the way it goes.”

“But you're hiding something.”

“Not at all.”

“You never know where you are with Upper Egyptians,” he said on his way out.

39
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The sheikh told the news to everyone he met, including Muhammad Tawakkul who was staying with him at the time. To his surprise, his guest showed some interest.

“Is he the Upper Egyptian with a beard?” he asked.

“That's the one,” answered the Bulaq sheikh.

Muhammad Tawakkul closed his eyes in thought.

40
.

An hour later the alley was shaken by a military raid. A detachment of men stormed Badr al-Saidi's house, while a detective named Hilmi Abd al-Basit conducted an inquiry in his shop. People swarmed around like ants.

“Where is Samaha Sulayman al-Nagi?” Hilmi Abd al-Basit asked Mahasin roughly.

“I don't know anyone of that name,” she answered confidently.

“Really! What about Badr al-Saidi?”

“I don't know.”

“Liar.”

“Don't be insulting. What do you want with an honorable man?”

“Honorable! You know very well he's on the run to escape the gallows.”

“God forbid! Everyone around here knows him.”

“You're coming with me to the police station,” he shouted.

“I've got three children. There's nobody to look after them. What do you want with me?” she wailed.

41
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They searched the house and the shop. Mahasin was interrogated thoroughly, then released. The news spread through the alley like wildfire. People were astonished.

“Badr al-Saidi!”

“The one with a beard…”

“The one who was always doing good works!”

“He's a killer, fleeing the gallows!”

“Only his mother-in-law found out, even though she was as bad as him!”

42
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Habit gradually stripped the strange events of their novelty. Mahasin put her children into Quran school, and after school she brought them to the shop where she could watch them while they played. She grieved over her husband and her own bad luck, and despite spells of resentment she never forgot that he had left her reasonably well off, even rich, with a thriving business.

Since the day of the raid the detective, Hilmi Abd al-Basit, often hung around the alley or sat in the sheikh's shop. She wondered if he was still watching her. She felt his eyes on her and his behavior made her uneasy but she pretended to ignore him. He was a rough, boorish man, tall, with a big head, small eyes, a coarse nose, and a mustache like a vegetable chopper. It was an appearance that boded ill, and brought back bad memories. He was watching her, she was sure of it, so what was on his mind? He would pass by the shop and give it a strange look that made her wonder, or sit talking to the sheikh and stare mercilessly at her. What did he want? Her reason and her instinct both demanded to know, and she was ready for a fight.

One day he paused in front of her shop. He stepped up to her, breaking in on her thoughts, and asked, smiling, “Do you really believe your husband is innocent?”

“Yes,” she answered, without raising her eyes to look at him.

“The killer insisted he was innocent until the rope was around his neck,” he intoned as he went on his way.

43
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One morning she saw Muhammad Tawakkul, the sheikh of the al-Husayn quarter, and invited him into her shop. She received him courteously, then confessed, “Perhaps you know what's bothering me?”

“May God come to your aid,” he murmured pleasantly.

“But you're the only one who knows the truth.”

“The truth?”

“About the accusation.”

Tawakkul said smoothly, “All I know is what was revealed by the inquiry.”

“But he swore to me that he was innocent.”

“It was established in court that he killed the girl and fled.”

Mahasin sighed despairingly, then said, “Tell me about my husband's family.”

Muhammad Tawakkul smiled. “They're descended from a line of clan chiefs of the old days. People tell tales of the miracles they're supposed to have performed. But I don't trust our people's imagination. They believe good began and ended in an obscure past and they don't distinguish between dreams and reality. They think with their emotions and their judgments are clouded because of the wretched conditions they live in. They think an angel came down from the skies every now and then to protect their ancestors.”

“Is al-Fulali one of them?”

“No. Their reign's over. None of them would even think about it. These days most of them are paupers or small tradesmen, but your husband belongs to the only wealthy branch of the family that remains. His uncle Khidr is a big merchant. So is his brother, Radwan. Do you want to hand the children over to them?”

“Certainly not,” she interrupted quickly. “I'll never give them up. I don't need anyone's help. I only asked you because I thought I should know.”

“They might come to claim them one day.”

“I'll do everything in my power to keep them,” exclaimed Mahasin passionately.

“May God come to your aid,” he said as he rose to leave.

44
.

As the days passed, Hilmi Abd al-Basit became a regular customer at the shop. Was it all part of his strategy for observing her? But she had deceived herself for long enough: these hungry looks were not those of a spy, and she had done nothing to merit being kept under observation. He hovered around her with infatuated glances and an ingratiating smile, his embarrassed manner betraying his hidden intentions. She knew what was going on instinctively but pretended not to notice, feeling an aversion but avoiding a decision, and her anxiety about the future increased day by day.

One day he remarked out of the blue, “God forgive him.”

She looked at him curiously, although she knew who he meant.

“He left you alone with three children,” he said.

She said nothing.

“And even if he escapes, you've still got to wait eight years.”

She frowned.

“And he's not going to escape!” he declared with conviction.

“God is on the side of the oppressed,” she said sadly.

“I've never heard of a killer escaping the hangman's rope. They always get caught in the end.”