Children of the Alley

by Naguib Mahfouz

  Adham shook his head but said nothing.

  “Everything is in those documents,” urged Idris.

  “I don’t know anything about them, and you know no one in our house knows anything about them. The work I do is completely under our father’s supervision.”

  Idris transfixed him with a sad stare. “The estate documents are in a big book. I saw it once when I was small and asked what was in it. That was when he loved me the best. He said it was all about us, and wouldn’t talk about it or answer my questions about it. Now there is no question but my fate is decided in it.”

  Adham felt cornered. “God knows,” he said.

  “It’s in a secret room off of our father’s bedroom. You must have seen the little door at the end of the wall, on the left. It’s always locked, but the key is kept in a little silver box in the drawer of his bedside table. The big book is on the table in that narrow room.”

  Adham raised his thin eyebrows in alarm. “What do you want?”

  “Any peace of mind left for me in this world,” sighted Idris, “depends on finding out what is written about me in that book.”

  Adham seemed alarmed. “It would be easier for me just to ask him what’s in the Ten Conditions!”

  “He wouldn’t say—he’d get angry, and might think badly of you for asking, or get thinking about why you were asking in the first place, and he’ll get angry. I would hate for you to lose your father’s trust as punishment for acting charitably toward me. He certainly doesn’t want to broadcast his Ten Conditions—if he wanted us to know that, we would all know. The only sure way to the book is the one I’ve described to you. It will be very easy to do at dawn, when he goes out for his walk in the garden.”

  Adham paled. “What a horrible thing to ask of me, Idris.”

  Idris hid his frustration with a weak smile. “It’s not a crime for a son to read what concerns him in his father’s papers.”

  “But you’re asking me to steal a secret that our father guards with his honor.”

  Idris sighed audibly and said, “I said to myself when I decided to come to you, ‘There’s nothing harder than convincing Adham of something he considers contrary to his father’s will,’ but I was deluded by hope and thought, ‘Maybe he’ll do it if he sees how badly I need his help,’ and after all it’s no crime. It will go smoothly, and you’ll see that you can lift a soul from Hell at no cost to yourself.”

  “May God keep us from evil!”

  “Amen—but I’m begging you to save me from torment!”

  Adham rose anxiously and was followed by Idris, who showed him a smile signaling his hopeless surrender.

  “I have really troubled you, Adham; one of the things about my wretchedness is that I bring trouble to everyone I meet, one way or another. Idris is still a cruel curse.”

  “How much it pains me, not being able to help you—it is the worst pain I know.”

  Idris came near him and placed his hand tenderly on Adham’s shoulder, then kissed him affectionately on the forehead. “I’m the only one responsible for my hard life—why should I ask more of you than you’re capable of? Let me leave you in peace—what will be, will be.”

  And with that, Idris left.

  7

  Excitement crept into Umaima’s face, after a long absence, as she asked Adham earnestly, “Hasn’t your father ever told you about the book before?”

  Adham was sitting cross-legged on their sofa, gazing out the window at the shadow-shrouded desert. “He has never told anyone about it.”

  “But you—”

  “I’m only one of his many sons.”

  “But he chose you to run the estate,” said Umaima with a light smile.

  Adham turned to her and spoke sharply. “I just said he never told anyone about it.”

  She smiled again to soften his irritation. “Don’t trouble yourself about it—Idris doesn’t deserve that much,” she said slyly. “All the terrible things he’s done to you can never be forgotten.”

  Adham turned to the window and said sadly, “The Idris who visited me today is not the same Idris who did terrible things to me. He was so sad and repentant—I can’t get the sight of him out of my mind.”

  “That’s what I thought, from what you were saying,” Umaima said in plain delight. “And that’s why I’m concerned, but you seem so depressed, and that’s not like you.”

  He gazed at the impenetrable blackness, his busy head unable to think. “There’s no use worrying.”

  “But your repentant brother is asking you to take pity.”

  “ ‘My eye sees far but my arm is short.’ What can I do?”

  “You should make up with him and your other brothers, or someday you’ll find yourself all alone before them.”

  “You’re thinking of yourself, not Idris.”

  She shook her head as if to banish any thought of cunning. “It’s my right to think of myself—in doing that I’m thinking of you too, and of my baby.”

  What did this woman want? And this blackness—it obliterated even the massive Muqattam. He relaxed in silence until she spoke again.

  “Don’t you remember ever entering the little room?”

  He broke his short silence. “Never. I wanted to go in there when I was a boy, but my father didn’t let me, and my mother wouldn’t let me near it.”

  “You must have really wanted to go in.”

  He was discussing the matter with her because he expected her to help him resist Idris, but she was pushing him toward him. He needed someone to support the correctness of his stand against his brother; this he needed badly, yet he was like a man calling in the dark for a watchman and having a robber emerge instead.

  Umaima was asking him another question. “Do you know the drawer with the silver box in it?”

  “Anyone who’s been inside the room knows it—why do you ask?”

  She slid seductively down the sofa nearer to him. “Can you swear that you don’t really want to see the room?”

  “No,” he said crossly. “Why would I?”

  “Who wouldn’t want to see the future?”

  “Your future, you mean.”

  “Mine and yours, and that of Idris, whom you feel so sorry for in spite of all he’s done to you!”

  The woman was expressing his own thoughts; that was what made him mad. He stretched his head toward the window as if wishing to escape from it.

  “I don’t want anything my father doesn’t want.”

  Umaima’s penciled eyebrows rose. “Why should he hide it?”

  “That’s his business—you’re asking so many questions tonight!”

  “The future!” said Umaima, almost to herself. “To know our future—to do something for poor Idris—and all it would cost us would be reading a sheet of paper, with no one the wiser. I dare any friend or enemy to prove any bad intentions if we did that, or to show that it hurt your dear father in the least!”

  Adham was watching a star brighter than all the others and paid no attention to her words. “How beautiful the heavens are! If it weren’t for the night mists I’d be sitting in the garden, watching it through the branches.”

  “Those conditions of his must benefit somebody.”

  “I don’t care about benefits that only cause problems.”

  “If only I knew how to read,” sighed Umaima, “I would go look in the silver box myself.”

  He wished she could; this made him twice as angry at her and at himself too. He felt as though he had already succumbed to the forbidden deed—as though it were already a foregone conclusion. He turned to her, frowning; by the light of the suspended lamp which danced in the breeze from the window, his face looked gloomy and weak despite his scowl.

  “I was lost as soon as I told you about it!”

  “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, and I love your father as much as you do.”

  “That’s enough of this talk—don’t you prefer to rest at this time of day?”

  “I guess my heart won’
t rest until you’ve done this simple thing.”

  “O God, give her back her sense!” groaned Adham.

  She looked at him calmly. “Didn’t you disobey your father when you met with Idris in the reception hall?”

  His eyes widened in surprise. “He was standing there in front of me! I had no choice!”

  “Did you tell your father that he visited?”

  “What’s with you tonight, Umaima?”

  “If you can disobey him in something that can hurt you,” she said in a triumphant tone, “why can’t you disobey him in something that can help you and your brother and hurts nobody?”

  He could have ended the conversation there if he wished, but this was a steep slope. And the truth was that he had let her go on like this because part of him needed her support.

  “What do you mean?” he asked irritably.

  “I mean stay up until dawn, or until the coast is clear.”

  “I thought pregnancy had only taken away your sex drive—now I see it’s taken away your sense too,” said Adham angrily.

  “You are convinced by what I say—I swear by this new life inside me. But you’re afraid, and fear does not become you.”

  His face darkened with a look very different from the profound resignation inside him. “This is a night we’ll remember as our first fight.”

  “Adham,” she said with special tenderness, “let’s really think about this.”

  “It won’t do any good.”

  “That’s what you say now, but you’ll see.”

  He felt the heat of the fire he was moving into. “If you burn,” he said to himself, “your tears will never put it out.” He looked toward the window and imagined that the dwellers of that twinkling star were lucky to be so far from this house.

  “No one has ever loved his father as I love mine,” he muttered weakly.

  “You would never be capable of hurting him.”

  “Umaima, go to bed.”

  “You’re the one who won’t let me sleep.”

  “I was hoping you’d talk sense to me.”

  “I did.”

  He said to himself in a near-whisper: “I wonder—am I headed for my ruin?”

  She stroked the hand that rested on the arm of the sofa and chided him. “Our fate is one—you cold thing!”

  He answered with a resignation that indicated his decision: “Not even that star knows my fate!”

  “You will read your fate in that book,” she said impetuously.

  He looked out at the wakeful stars and the skeins of cloud illuminated by their serene light, and imagined that they had heard his conversation. “What a beautiful sky!” he mumbled.

  “You taught me to love the garden,” he heard Umaima say flirtatiously. “Let me return the favor.”

  8

  At dawn, the father left his room and headed for the garden. Adham was watching at the end of the hall, and Umaima was behind him, her hand on his shoulder in the dark. They followed the heavy, even sound of his footfalls but could not make out their direction in the dark; it was Gabalawi’s habit to take a walk at this hour without a light or any company. When the footsteps died away, Adham turned to his wife.

  “Maybe we should go back,” he whispered.

  She pushed him and whispered back in his ear, “Look, you’re not doing anything wrong.”

  He moved forward with cautious steps with excruciating ambivalence, one hand closed over the small candle in his pocket while he felt along the wall with the other, until he felt the doorjamb.

  “I’ll stay here and keep a lookout. Go in, and be careful!”

  She reached out and pushed the door open, then withdrew. Adham edged warily toward the room and caught the penetrating odor of musk. He closed the door behind him and stood staring into the darkness until he made out the row of windows looking out onto the wasteland and beginning to show the light of daybreak. Adham felt as though the crime—if it was a crime—had taken place with his entering the room, and that he must complete the deed. He moved along the left wall, occasionally bumping into chairs, and passed by the door of the little room, until he reached the end. He followed the middle wall, and almost immediately came upon the table. He pulled open the drawer and felt inside it until he found the box. He paused to compose himself. He then went back to the door, found the keyhole, slipped the key inside and turned it. The door opened, and now he was slinking into the little room no one except his father had ever entered before. He closed the door, took out his candle and lit it: he was in a square, high-ceilinged room with no opening but the door. A small carpet was laid on the floor, and against the right wall was an elegant table with the huge book on it, chained to the wall. Adham’s throat was dry and he swallowed painfully, as if his tonsils were inflamed. He grit his teeth as if to squeeze the fear out of his quaking limbs. With the candle in his hand, he approached the table and studied the volume’s cover, ornamented with gold-leafed script, then put his hand out and opened it. Only with difficulty could he control himself and concentrate his mind. He read, in slanted Persian-style script, the formula “In the name of God.”

  He heard the door open suddenly. He jerked his head toward the sound involuntarily, almost as if the opening door had controlled his head. He saw Gabalawi in the light of the candle, his large body filling the doorframe, aiming a cold, harsh stare at him. Frozen into silence, Adham gazed into his father’s eyes. He could not speak, move or even think.

  “Get out,” Gabalawi ordered him.

  But Adham could not budge. He stood like a mere object, though no object can feel despair.

  “Get out!” screeched Gabalawi.

  His terror spurred him awake and he moved. Gabalawi moved out of the doorway, and Adham left the room, the candle still burning in his hand. He saw Umaima standing silently in the middle of the room, tears streaming from her eyes. His father motioned him to stand beside his wife, and he did; then he spoke sternly: “I want you to give me truthful answers.”

  Adham’s features expressed his obedience wordlessly.

  “Who told you about the book?” asked the man.

  “Idris,” said Adham, like a broken vessel that instantly spills its contents.

  “When?”

  “Yesterday morning.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “He sneaked in with the new tenants and waited until he could be alone with me.”

  “Why didn’t you kick him out?”

  “It would have hurt me to, Father.”

  “Don’t call me Father,” snapped Gabalawi.

  “You are my father,” replied Adham, gathering all his courage, “in spite of your anger and my foolishness.”

  “Did he tempt you to that deed?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Umaima, although the question had not been directed to her.

  “Be quiet, vermin.” Gabalawi turned back to Adham. “Answer me!”

  “He was desperate and depressed and remorseful, and was only concerned for the future of his children!”

  “So you did this for him!”

  “No—I told him I couldn’t.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  Adham sighed despairingly. “Satan!” he muttered.

  “Did you tell your wife what went on between you and him?” asked Gabalawi suggestively.

  Now Umaima began sobbing. Gabalawi told her to be quiet, and directed Adham, with a movement of his finger, to answer.

  “Yes.”

  “What did she say to you?”

  Adham was silent. He swallowed.

  “Answer me, you scum!”

  “I saw that she was eager to know what was in the will, and didn’t think that would hurt anybody.”

  Gabalawi glared at him contemptuously. “So you admit betraying someone who favored you above others better than you.”

  “I’m not trying to excuse what I did,” Adham virtually wailed, “but your forgiveness is greater than any sin or excuse.”

  “You conspired agains
t me with Idris after I kicked him out of here as a favor to you?”

  “I have not conspired with Idris, I made a mistake, and my only hope is in your forgiveness.”

  “Sir—” cried Umaima plaintively.

  “Quiet, vermin,” Gabalawi interrupted. He frowned at each of them in turn, and spoke in a terrible voice: “Get out of this house.”

  “Father!” begged Adham.

  “Get out,” said the man harshly, “before you are thrown out.”

  9

  This time the immense mansion gate swung open to witness the expulsion of Adham and Umaima. Adham walked out carrying a bundle of clothes, followed by Umaima with another bundle and some food. They cowered as they walked mournfully away, both crying from hopelessness. When they heard the gate snap shut behind them they wailed loudly, and Umaima sobbed, “Death is too good for me!”

  “You’re right, for once,” quavered Adham, “but death is too good for me too.”

  They had not gotten far from the house when they heard a mocking, drunken laugh. Looking around for its source, they saw Idris in front of the hut he had built of discarded planks and tin sheets, and his wife, Nargis, sitting, silently spinning. Idris laughed in gloating mockery until the astonished Adham and Umaima stopped to gape at him. Then he began to dance and snap his fingers, and Nargis looked annoyed and went into the hut; Adham looked on with eyes reddened from tears and rage. At once he realized how he had been tricked, and saw the vile and criminal truth. He saw his own folly and stupidity, which even now animated this criminal’s gloating, joyous dance. This was Idris, who had become the embodiment of evil. Adham’s blood boiled and rose until it filled his brain. He grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it, screaming in a voice choked with rage. “You trash! You abominable thing! Even the scorpions are more human than you!”

  Idris answered him with even wilder dancing; he rocked his head right and left, raised his eyebrows playfully and kept snapping his fingers.

  Adham’s anger rose again. “Depraved—rotten—worthless—that’s what liars are—and those are your good points!”

  Idris’ middle now undulated with the same grace as his head and he mouthed obscene soundless laughter.