In front of the hotel stood a carriage without a horse. The man moved toward the seat and quietly sat down. As for the other man, he took the place of the horse, putting the shafts under his arms. None of the passersby looked at what was happening. No crowd gathered. Every individual was occupied with something tangible or with something unseen. In fact one of the passersby even broke into song. “Those in love, O night.”
At the crack of the whip, he began pulling the carriage. He went off gracefully, gently, submissively. He saw both sides of the road but not what stretched out ahead of him. Thus it was into the unknown that he plunged.
Moving forward in a straight line or making a turn, his instructions come to him through tugs on the reins. To where is the man driving him? What does he have in mind for him? He does not know and does not care. He goes on without stopping. He urinates and defecates without stopping. Sometimes he neighs and raises his head, touching the bit with his dry tongue, while the sound of his hoofs on the asphalt echoes rhythmically. A monotonous rhythm that gives warning of a journey without end.
The Wasteland
Let the battle be fierce and savage and let it satisfy the thirst for revenge that had burned through twenty years of patient waiting and watching. The man’s face was aflame as his followers thronged behind him, some grasping their gnarled sticks, whose every knot gave warning of the breaking of bones, some carrying baskets filled with stones. The men proceeded along the desolate mountain path, vigorously resolved to fight.
You’re in for a tough time, Shardaha!
From time to time a street sweeper or garbage collector would gaze at the strange procession, concentrating with a curious, probing disbelief on the man who occupied the central position. They asked each other about this tough whom no one had ever seen.
You will know him and remember him well, you scum.
The inclining sun cast scorching rays on the embroidered scarves, and a khamsin wind blew like a thing possessed, burning the men’s faces and stirring up a loathsome gloom in the air. One of the followers leaned forward to the man’s ear and asked, “Master Sharshara, does Shardaha lie on the mountain road?”
“No, we have to cross through the Gawwala quarter.”
“News will spread quickly, and your enemy will make himself ready.”
A frown came to Sharshara’s face as he said, “What has to be done is not easy. A surprise attack will win the day, but it will not satisfy my thirst for revenge.”
A thirst of twenty years’ exile far from ever-wakeful Cairo, an exile spent in the darknesses of the port at Alexandria, with no hope in life but revenge. Food, drink, money, women, sky, earth, all were absorbed into heavy clouds; all sensation was confined to the aching state of being ever ready; the only thought to enter his mind was that of vengeance. No love, no stability, no leaving one’s wealth untouched, for everything disappeared in preparing for the dread day. And so the bloom of life melted away in the furnace of rancor and painful hatred. You had no delight in your slow but sure ascendancy among the port laborers. You reaped no real benefit from your victory over the Gaafaris in the battles of Kom al-Dikka. Nothing was easier for you than to live as a revered and respected gang leader and to adopt Alexandria as your home and hear the name Sharshara ring out under its skies. Yet your bloodshot eyes saw nothing of the world but Shardaha, with its narrow road, its steep, rambling quarters, and its odious tyrant, Lahlouba. Curse him!
The desolate mountain track ended at the gateway. The procession of men passed through it into the teeming quarter of al-Gawwala. In a sharp, commanding voice, like the fall of an axe on stone, Sharshara called out, “Not a word to anyone.”
The passersby made way for the procession; heads craned out of shops and windows and gazed at the unmistakable leader. Then fear and unrest spread.
“They’ll think we’ve come to harm them,” said Sharshara’s companion, in warning.
Sharshara eyed the pale faces and said loudly, “Men, I give you safety.”
Features relaxed and voices rose in greeting. Then, giving his companion a meaningful glance, he addressed the people, “We are on our way to Shardaha!”
He brandished his fearsome stick as he moved forward.
They are still looking at you in wonder. It is as though you had not been born in this quarter, in the very heart of Shardaha. But only murderers and criminals are remembered.
As a young man in his twenties, he had worked at the vegetable-oil press, his hobby playing marbles under the mulberry tree. He was an orphan who had no place to sleep except at the press, an act of charity on the part of Uncle Zahra, the owner. The first time he carried linseed oil to Lahlouba’s house, he had been given a slap on the back of the neck—that was the way Lahlouba had greeted him.
And Zeinab, how beautiful she had been! Had it not been for Shardaha’s tyrant, she would have been your wife these last twenty years. He could easily have asked for her hand before you did, but it seems she only became attractive to him the very night of your wedding. The hurricane lamps were broken, the singer fled, and the musical instruments were smashed. You were grabbed like some receptacle or piece of furniture. You were neither weak nor a coward, but to resist was beyond you. He threw you down under his feet, with dozens of other feet around you. He gave a hateful laugh and said scornfully, “Welcome, the linseed-oil bridegroom!” Your new galabeya was torn to shreds, your scarf lost, and what remained of your life’s savings stolen. You said, “I’m from Shardaha, master. We’re all your men and we rely on your protection.”
He gave you a slap on the back of the neck, proclaiming his sympathy. He then addressed his men sarcastically. “What treatment, you vile creatures!”
—
“I’m at your service, Master, but let me go….”
“Is the bride waiting for you?”
“Yes, boss, and I want my money. As for the galabeya, God will make it up to me.”
Lahlouba grasped his forelock and dragged him along by it. “Sharshara!” he said in a new, frighteningly grave tone.
“Whatever you say, boss.”
“Divorce her!”
“What?”
“I’m telling you, divorce her! Divorce your bride—now!”
“But…”
“She’s beautiful—but life is more beautiful.”
“I made the marriage contract with her this afternoon.”
“You’ll be writing the divorce document tonight—and the sooner the better.”
He let out several groans of despair. Lahlouba kicked him mercilessly, and in seconds he was stripped of his torn clothes. He was thrown to the ground following a blow to the back of the head. Then he was beaten with a cane till he fainted, and his face was thrust into a hollow full of horse urine. “Divorce her!” Lahlouba kept saying.
He wept from the pain and the humiliating subjugation, but he did not protest. In mock sympathy Lahlouba told him, “No one will ask you to pay the sum agreed on in the event of divorce.”
One of Lahlouba’s men shook him violently. “Give praise to your Lord and thank your master.”
The pain and the degradation and the lost bride. And now the perfumes issuing from the spice shop in al-Gawwala take you back to the past even more than has your actual return. The old places where you used to play, and Zeinab’s face that you had loved ever since she was ten years old. Throughout the twenty years, your heart has moved only in rancor, while before that it had known only love and fun.
Soon I shall not grieve for the loss I have suffered in life. When I throw you to the ground at my feet, Lahlouba, and say, “Divorce her,” I shall take back the twenty years lost in hellfire. I shall find consolation for the money I have squandered on this gang of men, the money I had saved up through hard toil, theft, and risking my neck.
When the small tunnelway leading to Shardaha came into close view, he turned to his men and said, “Attack his followers but leave the man himself to me—and don’t hurt anyone else.”
He did not dou
bt that the news of his raid had preceded him to Shardaha, and that he would soon be standing face to face with Lahlouba. Nothing but a short tunnelway separated him from his objective. Warily he walked ahead of his men, but he met no one inside the tunnel. Then, all at once, they surged forward, raising their sticks, and letting out terrifying screams, but they found the street empty. The people had taken to their houses and shops, and Shardaha’s street stretched away forlornly toward the wasteland that marked it off from the domain of desert.
Sharshara’s companion whispered in his ear, “A ruse! It’s a ruse, I swear by Abu’l-Abbas.”*
“Lahlouba doesn’t use tricks,” said Sharshara in astonishment.
“Lahlouba!” he called out at the top of his voice. “Come out, you coward!”
But no one answered him and no one came out onto the street. He looked ahead of him in baffled expectancy and was met by a waft of chokingly hot dust. He was unloading a cargo of twenty years of anger and hatred. He saw the low arched door of the oil press; it was closed, and he advanced on it warily. He knocked with his stick until he heard a quaking voice imploring, “Safety!”
“Uncle Zahra!” shouted Sharshara triumphantly. “Come out, you’re safe!”
The face of the old man appeared at an aperture in the wall above the door, and he cast a wary glance at Sharshara.
“Don’t be frightened. No one intends you any harm. Don’t you remember me, man?”
The old man looked at him for a long time, then asked helplessly, “May God protect you, who are you?”
“Have you forgotten your apprentice Sharshara?”
The clouded eyes widened, then he cried out, “Sharshara? By the Book of God, it’s Sharshara himself!”
The old man quickly opened the door and hastened toward him, his arms open in outward welcome but inner fear. The two embraced. Sharshara refrained from asking his question till they had finished their greetings. “Where’s Lahlouba?” he then asked. “What’s wrong that he didn’t come to defend his quarter?”
“Lahlouba!” The old man gulped, raising his head from a thin, emaciated neck. “Don’t you know, my son?” he said. “Lahlouba died ages ago.”
Sharshara gave a shout from the depths of his lungs, reeling under an unseen blow. “No!”
“It’s the truth, my son.”
Then in a stronger voice, a voice more terrible than before, “No…. No, you old dodderer!”
Taking a step back in fear, the old man said, “But he’s well and truly dead, long ago.”
Sharshara’s arms slumped to his sides, and his whole frame seemed to collapse.
“It was five years ago or more,” continued the old man.
Ah, why is it that all beings disappear and nothing is left but dust?
“Believe me, he died. He was invited to a banquet at his sister’s house, and he ate some couscous and was poisoned, along with many of his followers. Not one of them survived.”
Ah, he can barely breathe—it is as though the air has been turned into bricks. Sinking down into the depths of the earth, he does not know what remains of himself on its surface.
He stared at Zahra with heavy, lusterless eyes. “Then Lahlouba died?” he muttered.
“And the rest of his followers were scattered. It was easy for the people to drive them out.”
“Not one of them is left?”
“Not one, thanks be to God.”
Suddenly Sharshara shouted in a voice like thunder, “Lahlouba, you coward! Why did you have to go and die?!”
The old man was terrified at the violence in Sharshara’s voice. “Take it easy,” he beseeched, “and say ‘There is no god but God.’ ”
Sharshara was about to turn to his companions with a gesture of resignation, but instead he asked listlessly, “And what do you know about Zeinab?”
In confusion the old man enquired, “Zeinab?”
“Old man, have you forgotten the bride they forced me to divorce on our wedding night?”
“Ah, yes. She sells eggs now in Donkey Lane.”
Sharshara, defeated and broken in spirit, looked at his men, the gang on which he had spent his life’s money. “Wait for me at the mountain,” he said sullenly.
His gaze hardened as he looked in the direction of the men and watched them disappear into the tunnel one by one. Should he catch up with them? When and why should he do so? And should he return by way of Gawwala or via the wasteland? But what about Zeinab? Yes, Zeinab, for whose sake you burned up twenty years of your life. (Was it really for her sake?) You will not come to her over the body of a defeated tyrant as you had planned. He is dead, and there is no point in plundering tombs. How ghastly is a vacuum!
She is there in her shop. She, she herself. Who would have imagined a meeting so shamefaced, ambiguous, and lukewarm! He seated himself on a chair in a small café the size of a prison cell and went on observing the shop crammed with customers. There was a woman, a stranger, of plump proportions and wide experience, her homely features matured with the years. She was swathed in black from head to foot, but her face retained a fair measure of charm. She was bargaining and disputing, humoring and quarreling, like any market woman worth her salt. Here she is if I want her—and without a battle. Also without honor having been satisfied. Gone forever is the chance of standing over Lahlouba and ordering him to divorce her. How ghastly is a vacuum!
He did not turn his eyes from her for a single instant. Memories flowed through him strangely, sadly, and with a deadly bewilderment. He had no idea of what he would do now. He had firmly believed her to be his whole world—yet where was she?
Like the close of life, sunset descended. The customers went off one after the other. Finally she seated herself on a low rush chair and smoked a cigarette. As an escape from his confusion, he decided to present himself before her. He stood in front of her and said, “Good evening, lady.”
In curiosity she raised two eyes penciled round with kohl. She did not recognize him, so she followed the smoke of her cigarette and muttered, “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing.”
She looked at him again with a certain sudden interest, and their eyes met in a fixed gaze. Her eyebrows rose, and the side of her mouth twisted into a half-smile.
“It’s me.”
“Sharshara!”
“The very same, but twenty years later.”
“It’s a long life.”
“Like an illness.”
“Praise God you’re well. Where were you?”
“The big wide world.”
“You’ve got a job and a family and children?”
“Not a thing.”
“And at last you returned to Shardaha.”
“A return of failure and frustration.”
A doubting, questioning look gleamed in her eyes, and he said angrily, “Death beat me to it.”
“Everything is over and done with,” she muttered sadly.
“Hope was buried with him.”
“Everything is over and done with.”
They exchanged a long look; then he inquired, “And how are you?”
She pointed to the baskets of eggs. “As you can see—just fine.”
“Didn’t you…didn’t you get married?”
“The boys and girls all grew up.”
It was an answer that meant nothing. A feeble excuse that was like a snare. What was the good of returning before regaining one’s lost honor? How ghastly is a vacuum! Pointing to an empty chair in a corner of the shop, she said, “Sit down.” A soft intonation as in the days of old. Yet there was nothing left but dust.
“Another time.” He hesitated in tortured confusion, then shook her by the hand and left. The time would not come again.
This is how you found yourself twenty years ago. Then, though, hope had not yet gone to its grave.
He hated the idea of going to the mountain by the Gawwala road. He did not want to see people or be seen by them. There was also the route through the wasteland, so it was toward
the wasteland that he headed.
* * *
*A Muslim saint whose tomb is in Alexandria.
The Norwegian Rat
Fortunately we were not alone in this affliction. Mr. A.M., being the senior householder in the building, had invited us to a meeting in his flat for an exchange of opinions. There were not more than ten people present, including Mr. A.M., who, in addition to being the oldest among us, held the most senior position and was also the most well off. No one failed to show up—and how could they, seeing that it had to do with the rats and their likely invasion of our homes and their threat to our safety? Mr. A.M. began in a voice of great gravity with “As you all know…” and then set forth what the papers had been reiterating about the advance of the rats, their vast numbers, and the terrible destruction that would be wrought by them. Voices were raised around the room.
“What is being said is quite beyond belief.”
“Have you seen the television coverage?”
“They’re not ordinary rats; they’re even attacking cats and people.”
“Isn’t it likely that things are a bit exaggerated?”
“No…no, the facts are beyond any exaggeration.”
Then, calmly and with pride in being the chairman, Mr. A.M. said, “It has in any case been established that we are not alone. This has been confirmed to me by the Governor.”
“It’s good to hear that.”
“So all we have to do is carry out instructions meticulously, both those that come directly through me and those that come by way of the authorities.”
“And will this cost us a great deal?” it occurred to one of us to inquire.
He resorted to the Koran for a reply. “ ‘God does not charge a soul beyond its scope.’ ”
The Time and the Place: And Other Stories Page 12
