The Harafish (23 page)

Who could be at the door? It was almost midnight. She opened it just enough to see a figure standing there. “Who is it?” she cried.

He pushed the door wide open and pounced on her—or so it seemed to her. Before she could scream he put a hand over her mouth. They fused into a single being in the light of the lamp burning in the window. With his hand still clasped over her mouth, he raised his head and said, “It's Samaha, Mahasin. Samaha's come back.”

Then he took his hand away and she stared in amazement at his hairy face.

“You're safe now. Samaha's come back. The suffering's over!”

She went on staring at him in astonishment.

“It's over. The fifteen years. There are only a few hours left, but I couldn't wait any longer.”

At this point, Hilmi appeared in the bedroom doorway, armed with a big metal washbowl. “You've had it. Give yourself up.”

The sight of him was like a heavy blow landing on Samaha's skull. “Who's this?” he mumbled. “A man in your room! What does this mean, Mahasin?”

Mahasin took refuge at her husband's side, swallowed, and said, “It's my husband.” Then, indicating the children, whom Samaha noticed for the first time, she added, “Their father.”

Samaha raised his left arm, then let it sink down on his head in a gesture of confusion. The ground swayed beneath his feet. “Really? Your husband? I hadn't imagined anything like this!”

Hilmi brandished the washbowl, saying, “Give yourself up. I'm a police detective.”

“Really?” Samaha was seized with a sudden fit of laughter.

“If you resist I'll smash your head in,” roared Hilmi.

“Let him go,” whispered Mahasin.

“Go to the window and shout for help,” he ordered her.

In a flash, Samaha swooped on one of the children. He hauled him to his feet with one hand and grabbed him around the neck with the other. The child began to scream. “If anybody moves or makes a sound, I'll throttle the child.”

“Put my son down, you criminal!” shrieked Mahasin.

“Nobody moves or screams for help. You don't attack a wounded snake.”

“Put the boy down.”

“He'll be fine as long as nothing happens to me.”

“Rummana, Qurra, and Wahid are being looked after by your uncle,” ventured Mahasin.

He nodded. “That's good, but don't let anyone think he has a duty to hand me over to the executioner.”

“Let him go,” Mahasin begged her husband.

“He can go to hell,” said Hilmi, the fight gone out of him.

“First throw down the washbowl.”

Hilmi threw it down. Mahasin rushed to snatch the child
away from Samaha. Quickly Hilmi picked up the bowl again and threw it at Samaha. His aim was poor and it barely grazed the top of Samaha's head. Samaha seized it and flew at Hilmi and brought it down squarely on the back of his neck. Hilmi sank to the floor, unconscious.

Samaha was out of the door in a single bound, pursued by Mahasin's screams. When he reached the street a few people, still out and about at that hour, were hurrying in the direction of the screams for help. He made with all speed for the road leading down to the Nile. The hunt was on all over again. He leapt into a boat and began rowing away from the shore. When he was halfway across, he heard a familiar voice.

“Give yourself up, Samaha. You've killed the detective,” shouted the Bulaq sheikh.

60
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“Samaha. At last!” cried Khidr al-Nagi, gazing at his nephew.

They embraced warmly, then Khidr exclaimed, “I've dreamed of this day for so long. Thank God you're safe. Let me wake Radwan.”

But Samaha grasped his hand and murmured, “Where are the children?”

“Wait till the morning. You should shave your beard before you see them.”

Again Samaha whispered, “The children. I want to see them.”

61
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He approached them, staring at their faces as they roamed in the mysterious valleys of sleep; mouths slack, half-open, masks freed from the grip of time, youthful features betraying adolescent ardor, ripe seeds containing the germs of a future rich in contradictions.

Affection shone from his tear-filled eyes, a rush of longing welled up in him, and his limbs trembled, making him gasp out loud. He pushed his mustache and beard away from his lips.

Khidr whispered in his ear, “You'll scare them.”

But Samaha kissed their cheeks lightly and gracefully, watching out for any tiny flickers of movement, then he stood back gently, cautiously, sadly.

62
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“You must get some sleep,” Khidr said to him.

“There's no time,” he answered, shaking his head.

“But you're very tired, Samaha.”

“I've got a lifetime of weariness ahead of me.”

Khidr told him al-Fulali had died two years before, and al-Faskhani had taken his place; Dagla and Hamouda were dead too, and Antar and Farid in prison. Samaha listened without interest, then rested his hand on his uncle's shoulder and said, “I'm still on the run.”

“Isn't the time up?” asked Khidr, suddenly agitated.

“I was forced to kill some foolish devil an hour ago.”

63
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As he went on the run for the second time, Samaha paused in the square in front of the monastery. The perfumed breath of the alley filled his nostrils, but where was the feeling of intoxication? He had so often dreamed of standing here as a prelude to a new beginning: taming the villains and restoring justice. Instead it was the start of a new journey into suffering and exile. If he came back at all it would be as a weak old man.

He went toward the path. The voices were chanting in the darkness:

Darde mara nist darman al-ghiyath

Hejre mara nist payan al-ghiyath
.

1
.

T
he emotions of the Nagi family and the harafish were set in turmoil by the unexpected return and sudden disappearance of Samaha. His sons were probably the least affected of anybody because he came and went while they were asleep and anyway, as far as they were concerned, he was no longer much more than a faint memory, like their mother in Bulaq. His story was told far and wide, and became a legend and a cautionary tale.

2
.

Rummana, Qurra, and Wahid worked in the grain merchant's with their uncle Radwan and their great-uncle Khidr. A strange piece of news went around the neighborhood: Hilmi was not dead as everybody had supposed. He recovered from the blow and resumed his life as a detective, sponging off Mahasin. The folly of Samaha's flight was exposed and people grieved for him more than ever; Khidr set out to find him. He enlisted the services of the officer in charge of the Gamaliyya police station and tried to negotiate with al-Faskhani, the clan chief, increasing the protection
money he paid him and promising a large reward to anyone who found his nephew.

His activities aroused al-Faskhani's suspicions, and when some of his older followers reminded him of Samaha's ambitions he grew increasingly anxious, along with many of the alley's notables.

Early one morning Khidr was found beaten up in the lane outside the kebab seller's where he had sat up late the night before. Nothing could be done for him and he died two days later. Although most people agreed that the killers should be tracked down, inquiries were met with a wall of silence, as usual in such cases, and Khidr vanished from sight like a grain of sand.

3
.

The Nagi family was shaken by the killing of its chief and considered such an ignominious end typical of the lamentable state of their fortunes. However, they submitted to their fate, acknowledging their impotence, all except for Wahid—Samaha's youngest son—who flew into a fury which threatened disastrous consequences.

“Our uncle's killer's having a good laugh at this very moment,” he exclaimed bitterly, “and his name's al-Faskhani! Did Ashur al-Nagi imagine that his descendants would end up like this?”

Khidr's widow, Diya, was as upset as Wahid, but in her own way. The crime pushed her into the embrace of the unknown. She shunned the world of human beings, learned the languages of the stones and the birds, and took shelter from the knives of suffering in a cave full of spirits. She became a sorceress, interpreted dreams, read tea leaves and coffee grounds, made mysterious prophesies. She liked to wear a white dress and green veil and, swinging a brass censer, would saunter the length of the alley in silence as night fell, with wisps of perfumed smoke rising from her. A servant girl followed a short distance behind, and curious eyes stared.

Some of the clan mocked her. “That's safer than wanting to be clan chief,” they sneered.

Her behavior pained the young men of the family in particular,
but they could do nothing to control her. Wahid in his anger even said to her, “Stay indoors, and show some respect for your husband's memory.”

She looked at him stupidly. “I saw you in a dream, riding a green locust.”

Wahid despaired of having a reasonable conversation with her.

“Do you know what that means?” she persisted.

He paid no attention and she answered herself, “That you were made for the open air!”

4
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Such was the strength of his anger that Wahid broke through the barriers of prudence. He was so bored with the grain merchant's, felt so far away from Rummana and Qurra. The old woman said he was made for the open air. Did this mean he was fit to mount a challenge?

He was of medium build, handsome in spite of being blind in one eye, and strong, but next to al-Faskhani he was like a kitten beside a sheep. He was not normally headstrong, but felt disturbed now by a sense of vague uneasiness and disquiet. His uncle Radwan warned him constantly to beware of his fantasies and get on with his work, while his aunt Safiyya said, “Don't make Diya's dreams mean what you want them to mean.”

He went against his family and made friends with Muhammad Tawakkul, the local sheikh, in spite of their age difference, spending many a long evening with him in al-Sanadiqi's hashish den. From time to time he took to frequenting the bar, and in the course of his visits he developed a good relationship with the owner, Sadiq Abu Taqiya. He had a young man's predilection for drinking and fighting but never missed the Friday prayer. The sheikh of the mosque, Ismail Qalyubi, asked him one day, “Can God allow the mosque and the tavern to coexist harmoniously in a single heart?”

“Murderers can live happily in their houses, while innocent men suffer in exile,” countered Wahid.

5
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After a night of excess he had a long dream: he was in the monastery square, even though he had no particular love of the place. A dervish came to him and said, “The Great Sheikh wants you to know that the world was created yesterday at dawn.”

Wahid felt unbelievably happy. He was carried through the alley in a howdah, watched by the crowds who lined either side. He saw his mother, Mahasin from Bulaq, waving a hand in his direction and commanding the howdah to rise.

The howdah lifted him high in the air, and the wind carried him to a stretch of open country enclosed by a red mountain.

“Where is the man?” he found himself asking.

A giant of a man descended from the mountainside and hailed Wahid: “Stand firm in the place of salvation.”

“It's you, Ashur,” Wahid declared with certainty.

The giant took hold of his arm and rubbed some ointment into it. “This is the magic you need,” he pronounced.

6
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When Wahid woke up, he felt inspired. Strength, optimism, and victory were his to command. He had no doubt that he was capable of miracles, that he could jump off the roof and come to no harm. Allowing himself to be swept along by the hurricane, he dressed and went straight to the café where al-Faskhani held court.

“I'm offering you a challenge, you thug,” he said, staring him in the eye.

The chief raised his heavy lids, as if he thought Wahid was mad, but he welcomed the chance of a clash with one of the Nagis' young lions. “You're drunk, you son of a whore,” he taunted.

Wahid spat in his face. Al-Faskhani leapt to his feet. A crowd was gathering to watch. Wahid did not hesitate: he swooped on the chief and hit him with all his force across the back of the head. Al-Faskhani fell back, gasping for breath. Wahid snatched the chief's club and hit him around the knees, immobilizing him, then grappled
with his followers, felling them with amazing strength and speed.

Before the day was over, Wahid was chief of the clan.

7
.

The news took the alley by storm. The hearts of the harafish quickened with hope. The notables were beset by uneasy fears. The Nagi family dreamed of the throne of light. Wahid began to tell of his dream, the miracle which had given him his enchanted arm, his supreme confidence in his victory which had made him able to confront death with ease. He quickly became aware of the ardent hopes pinned on him by some, and the chilly dread he inspired in others, but he preferred to go slowly and carefully, and let things proceed in their accustomed way, although he gave generously to the most impoverished inhabitants of the neighborhood.

“When will you realize your exiled father's dream?” his uncle Radwan asked him.

“I'm taking it step by step,” he said cautiously, “otherwise I'll lose control of the clan.”

“That's the behavior of a politician, not a hero, nephew.”

“May God be merciful to a man who knows his limits,” he remarked obscurely.

Still Radwan did not lose hope, while Wahid continued to bide his time. As the days passed and he experienced the glory of being chief, the ease and comfort of wealth, the fawning of the notables, he began to abandon himself to the lure of seduction, and his selfish impulses grew stronger as heroic dreams of restoring the Nagis' golden age faded. He was soon building a house of his, own, enjoying all the good things of life, becoming increasingly addicted to drink and drugs and so steeped in depravity that his perversions became public knowledge.

“It would have been better if he hadn't been one of us,” commented Radwan bitterly to his wife, Unsiyya.

The harafish recalled Sulayman's decline and observed that only the faults were handed down in the Nagi family. Qurra was as
distressed by Wahid's behavior as his uncle Radwan, but Rummana said, “At least we've got back some of our standing.”

Rummana was like his brother Wahid in his avid desire for pleasure and the scant regard he had for the family's past glory. Wahid gave himself the title of “The Visionary,” but he was known privately to the harafish as “The One-Eyed.” His perversions were well known: he had never married, and he surrounded himself with young men like the Mamelukes.

This was established as the pattern of Wahid the One-Eyed's reign.

8
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Radwan grew tired at heart. Although he was not yet forty, work began to exhaust him: at the slightest effort he was bathed in a cold sweat and the world would turn black before his eyes. He was weighed down by sorrow, because of the tragedy which had befallen his brother Samaha and his nephew's dismal conduct, and so he withdrew from active life, preferring solitude and meditation. He left the running of the grain merchant's business to Rummana and Qurra.

9
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The brothers occupied the director's office together, two completely different characters sharing the same job. Qurra was handsome; his eyes radiated charm, and he had his mother Mahasin's delicate features and graceful physique which, along with his good manners and integrity, made him seem like Shams al-Din, without his strength. Rummana, on the other hand, was short and stout as a barrel, with dark skin and coarse features and a crude recklessness about him. Qurra was the better manager and businessman, and more straightforward in his dealings with the workers, who liked him for his tolerance and generosity. Rummana used to socialize with his brother Wahid in the hashish den, only too pleased to be involved in his escapades and, when he was drunk, to criticize his brother Qurra with envious sarcasm.

One day he said to Qurra, “You squander your money to buy the men's affections. What's the sense in that?”

“Affection isn't a business deal,” said Qurra.

“What is it, then?”

“Try it, Rummana!”

Rummana laughed scathingly. “You're just a manipulator.”

Although Qurra was a year younger than Rummana, he felt responsible for him, and even for Wahid. The two brothers were irritated by his perfectionism.

“You're lords of the alley now. Before you were the riffraff. Don't you give me credit for that?” Wahid challenged him one day.

“We only lost our reputation because of you,” retorted Qurra angrily.

“Don't believe these fairy tales!” said Wahid with uncontrolled rage.

“Aren't you ‘The Visionary'?” asked Qurra sarcastically.

Wahid turned on his heel and strode off in a fury.

Rummana's amorous adventures also pained Qurra. “Why don't you get married?” he implored. “Out of respect for us!”

“You're a year younger than me,” said Rummana angrily. “You can't give me orders.”

Radwan was upset by the differences he noticed between the brothers and said to Qurra, “It's important to me that you preserve good relations with each other.”

“We've got enough trouble as it is,” added his aunt Safiyya, “and you're never going to change the world.”