Children of the Alley

by Naguib Mahfouz

  He went out into the yard and found Qadri sitting on the ground. He leaned over him and whispered, “Tell me—what do you know about your brother?”

  Qadri jerked his head up at him but something kept him from speaking.

  “Tell me, Qadri, what you did to your brother.”

  “Nothing,” said the boy almost inaudibly.

  The man went back inside and came out with a lantern, which he lit and placed on his cart. It cast light on Qadri’s face, which the man studied with alarm. “Something in your face tells me you’re suffering.”

  Umaima’s voice called out from within, so mingled with the children’s voices that no one could make out what she was saying.

  “Be quiet, woman—die, if you want, but do it quietly!”

  His searching gaze resettled on his son. Suddenly he began to shake; he snatched the edge of Qadri’s sleeve, panic-stricken. “Blood! What is this? Your brother’s blood?!”

  Qadri stared at his sleeve, flinched involuntarily and bowed his head in desperation. This despairing action was his confession, and Adham pulled him to his feet, then pushed him outside. He pushed him with a brutality of which he had not known himself capable, as a darkness blacker than the surrounding night shrouded his eyes.

  21

  He pushed him toward the desert, saying, “We’ll go through the desert of al-Darasa so that we won’t pass Idris’ house.”

  They advanced deeper into the desert, Qadri stumbling as he was forced along by his father’s iron grip on his shoulder. Adham took long steps and asked, in a voice like an old man’s, “Tell me. Did you hit him? What did you hit him with? How was he when you left him?”

  Qadri did not answer. His father’s hand was like iron, but he did not feel it. His pain was intense but he said nothing. He wished that the sun had never risen.

  “Have a heart, Qadri—say something. What do you know about heart? I condemned myself to torment the day you were born. For twenty years I’ve been haunted by curses, and here I am begging for mercy from someone who doesn’t know what it is.”

  Qadri began to cry, until his shoulder began to shake under Adham’s unyielding grip, and kept on crying until Adham saw how agonized he felt, but Adham said, “Is that your answer? Why, Qadri? Why? What got into you? Confess now, in the dark, before you see yourself in daylight.”

  “I hope day never comes,” exclaimed Qadri.

  “We are a family of darkness, we will never see daylight! I thought evil lived in Idris’ house, but here it is in our own blood. Idris cackles and gets drunk and disgraces himself, but we kill one another. God! Did you kill your brother?”

  “Never!”

  “Then where is he?”

  “I didn’t mean to kill him!”

  “But he’s dead!” shouted Adham.

  Qadri sobbed, and his father’s grip tightened on his shoulder. So Humam had been murdered—the flower of all his work, his grandfather’s pet—as if he had never been. Without this tearing pain, I would never have believed it.

  They came to the big boulder.

  “Where did you leave him, murderer?” asked Adham in a heavy voice.

  Qadri headed toward the spot where he had dug his brother’s grave and stood there, between the boulder and the mountain.

  “Where is your brother?” Adham asked. “I don’t see anything.”

  “I buried him here,” said Qadri almost inaudibly.

  “You buried him?!” screamed Adham. He drew a box of matches from his pocket, struck one and studied the grave by its light until he saw a disturbed patch of earth and the path of the corpse that ended there. Adham moaned in pain and began to scoop away dirt with his trembling hands. He worked grimly until his fingers encountered Humam’s head. He dug his hands under Humam’s armpits and gently pulled the corpse out of the dirt. He knelt beside it and laid his hands on Humam’s head, his eyes closed, like a statue of hopelessless and defeat. He sighed deeply.

  “Forty years of my life seem like feeble nonsense when I look at your corpse, my son.”

  Suddenly he stood and stared at Qadri, standing on the other side of the corpse, and felt a blind rage for several moments before speaking. “Humam will go back home carried on your back,” he said heavily.

  Qadri started in terror and drew back, but the man swiftly stepped around the corpse and grabbed him by the shoulder, screaming, “Carry your brother!”

  “I can’t,” wailed Qadri.

  “You were able to kill him.”

  “Father, I can’t.”

  “Don’t call me Father! Anyone who kills his own brother has no father, no mother and no brother!”

  “I can’t.”

  Adham’s grip closed more tightly on him. “It’s the killer’s job to carry his victim.”

  Qadri tried to squirm out of his grasp but Adham would not let him, and in his shocked condition could not stop hitting Qadri in the face, though the boy did not flinch or cry out from the pain. Then the man stopped hitting him and said, “Don’t waste time—your mother is waiting.”

  Qadri trembled when he remembered his mother, and pleaded, “Just let me disappear.”

  Adham pushed him toward the body. “Get going. We’ll carry him together.”

  Adham turned to the corpse and put his hands under Humam’s armpits, and Qadri bent and put his hands under the ankles. They lifted the body together and moved slowly toward the desert of al-Darasa. Adham was so sunk in pain and shock that he had no sense of physical pain, or of any other feeling. Qadri still suffered from the throbbing of his heart and the shaking of his limbs. His nostrils were filled with a piercing, earthy smell, while the touch of the corpse spread from his hands to every part of his own body. The darkness was opaque, though the horizon twinkled with the lights of companionable neighborhoods. Qadri felt his despair cutting off what breath he had left, and he stopped.

  “I’ll carry the body alone,” he told his father. He placed one arm under the back and the other under the knees, and walked in front of Adham.

  22

  When they got near the hut they were greeted by Umaima’s fearful voice. “Did you find him?”

  “Stay inside,” Adham ordered her.

  He reached the hut before Qadri to make sure she did not come out. Qadri stood at the entrance to the hut, not wanting to move. His father motioned him in, but he could not go in.

  “I can’t face her,” Qadri whispered.

  “You’ve done a much worse thing,” his father hissed angrily.

  Qadri did not budge from where he stood. “No,” he said, “this is worse.”

  Adham pushed Qadri firmly before him to force him into the outer room, then pounced at Umaima to contain with his hand the scream that had not quite left her mouth.

  “Don’t scream, woman,” he said harshly, “we can’t attract any attention until we solve this. Let’s accept our fate in silence and live patiently with our pain. The evil came out of your belly and my loins. We are all cursed.”

  He still forcibly blocked her mouth. She tried to free herself from his hand, but in vain. She tried to bite it but could not. Her breathing came hard, and then her strength failed and she fell over in a faint. Qadri stood holding the corpse in silence and shame, his eyes fixed on the lantern to avoid seeing her. Adham moved toward him and helped him to lay the corpse down on the bed and tenderly shrouded it in a sheet. Qadri looked at the shrouded body of his brother on the bed they had shared all their lives, and felt that he no longer had a place here. Umaima moved her head, then opened her eyes; Adham went to her and spoke firmly: “Don’t scream.”

  She wanted to stand, and he helped her get up, still warning her against speaking. She began to throw herself on the bed, but the man prevented her, so she stood, defeated, then began to vent her agony by pulling frenziedly at her hair, tearing out wisp after wisp. The man did not care what she did, but told her roughly, “Do whatever you want, but do it quietly.”

  “My boy!” she cried hoarsely. “My boy!”


  “This is his corpse,” said Adham distractedly. “He is no longer your boy or my boy. This is who killed him. Kill him if you want.”

  Umaima slapped her cheeks in grief and screamed at Qadri, “The lowest animals don’t do what you did!”

  Qadri bowed his head silently while Adham screamed ferociously at him, “Has he died for nothing? You have no right to live—that’s justice!”

  “Just yesterday he was our shining hope,” wailed Umaima. “We told him, ‘Go,’ and he wouldn’t. If only he had! If only he hadn’t been so kind, so noble, so compassionate, he would have gone. And his reward is murder? How could you do this? Is your heart a stone? You aren’t my son and I’m not your mother!”

  Qadri did not utter a syllable but said to himself, “I killed him once, but he’s killing me once every second. I’m not alive. Who says I’m alive?”

  “What will I do with you?” asked Adham gruffly.

  “You said I have no right to live.”

  “How could you let yourself kill him?” cried Umaima.

  “Crying won’t do any good now,” said Qadri despairingly. “I’m ready to be punished. Killing is the least I deserve.”

  “But you’ve made our lives worse than death too,” said Adham bitterly.

  Umaima began to scream and slap her cheeks again. “I will never be happy again—bury me with my boy! Why won’t you let me raise my voice?”

  “Not out of fear for your throat,” said Adham with bitter sarcasm, “but because I’m afraid that Satan will hear you.”

  “Let him hear what he wants,” said Umaima scornfully. “I don’t want to live anymore.”

  Suddenly Idris’ voice sounded at the entrance of the hut.

  “Brother Adham! Come here! Poor man!”

  A shudder ran through them all.

  “Go back to your hut,” called Adham. “I warn you, don’t provoke me.”

  “Worse and worse! Your tragedy has spared you my anger. Enough of this kind of talk! We are both suffering—you lost a dear, precious son, and my only daughter is gone. Our children were our only consolation in our exile, and they’re gone! Poor man, come and let’s comfort one another.”

  The secret had got out! But how? For the first time Umaima’s heart was fearful for Qadri.

  “I don’t care about your gloating,” said Adham. “It’s nothing compared to my pain.”

  “Gloating!” Idris sounded shocked. “Don’t you know that I wept when I saw you pick up his body from the grave Qadri dug for him?”

  “Goddamned spying!” shouted Adham.

  “I didn’t weep only for the deceased but for his killer too! I said to myself, ‘Poor Adham, you have lost two boys in one night.’ ”

  Oblivious to everyone, Umaima began to scream. Abruptly Qadri left the hut, and Adham followed behind him.

  “I don’t want to lose them both!” shouted Umaima.

  Qadri wanted to pounce on Idris, but Adham pushed him away from him, then stood threateningly in front of the man. “I’m warning you, don’t interfere with us.”

  “You’re so stupid, Adham—you don’t know the difference between a friend and an enemy. You want to fight your brother to defend your son’s murderer.”

  “Get out of here.”

  “Whatever you say,” laughed Idris. “My deepest condolences on your loss. Have a nice day!”

  Idris disappeared into the darkness. Adham turned to Qadri, only to find Umaima standing there and asking about him. Worried, he went out to look for him in the darkness.

  “Qadri!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Qadri! Where are you?”

  He heard Idris’ powerful shout: “Qadri! Qadri! Where are you?”

  23

  Humam was buried in the estate cemetery at Bab al-Nasr. A large crowd of Adham’s friends walked in the funeral procession, most of them fellow peddlers, some of them customers who liked his good character and fair dealing. Idris forced himself on the funeral and took part in the obsequies, and even stood with the family to receive condolences, as he was the uncle of the deceased. Adham kept a grudging silence; a horde of local bullies, gangsters, thieves, hoodlums and other dissolutes joined the funeral procession. At the burial, Idris stood over the grave and offered Adham words of comfort; Adham patiently said nothing as tears rolled down his cheeks. Umaima vented her grief unabashed, slapping her cheeks, wailing and rolling in the dust.

  When the mourners left, Adham turned angrily to Idris. “Is there no end to your cruelty?”

  Idris affected amazement. “What are you talking about? You poor thing.”

  “I never thought you could be this cruel,” said Adham sharply, “but death is the end of everything—what is there to gloat about?”

  Idris slapped his palms together in resignation. “In your grief you have forgotten your manners, but I forgive you.”

  “When are you going to realize that you and I have nothing to say to one another?”

  “Heaven forgive us, aren’t you my brother? That’s a bond that can never be broken.”

  “Idris! You’ve done enough to me.”

  “Sorrow stinks, but we’re both bereaved. You lost Humam and Qadri and I lost Hind—now the great Gabalawi has a whore for a granddaughter and a murderer grandson! Anyway, you’re better off than I am—you have other children to make up for the ones you lost.”

  “You still envy me?” Adham sighed sadly.

  “Idris envious of Adham?” Idris was astounded.

  “If the punishment you get isn’t as horrible as the things you’ve done, I hope the world drops into Hell!”

  “Hell! Hell?”

  The gloomy days that followed were overloaded with pain. Umaima was overcome by grief, and her health failed; she began to look emaciated. In a few short years, Adham looked older than a long life would have made him, and they both suffered from feebleness and sickliness. One day their illness intensified and they went to bed, Umaima with the two little boys in the inner room, and Adham in the outer room—Qadri and Humam’s room. The day passed, night came and they lit no lamp. Adham was content with the moonlight that shone in from the yard. He dozed and slept intermittently, in a state between sleeping and waking. He heard Idris’ mocking voice from outside the hut.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  His heart sank and he did not answer. He always dreaded the hour when his brother left home for his nights out. Now here came the voice again.

  “Look, everybody! Look how kind I am, and how stubborn he is!” And he went away singing: “Three of us climbed the mountain to hunt. One was killed by passion, the second lost by love.”

  Adham’s eyes filled with tears. This evil never tires of its pleasure. It fights, kills and yet wins respect. It is cruel and overpowering and laughs at punishment—its laugh rocks the horizons! It delights in harassing the weak, it adores funerals and sings over tombstones. Death comes near me and it still mocks me with laughter. The victim is in the earth and the killer is lost, and in my hut we weep for them both. Childish laughter in the garden has given way to scowling age wet with tears. Within the remnant of my body there is only pain. Why all this misery? Where have my dreams gone? Where?

  Adham imagined that he heard footfalls. Slow, heavy footfalls that stirred misty memories, as a strong, sweet smell may defy perception and definition. He turned his face to the entrance of the hut and saw the door open, then saw it blocked by a huge form. He started in surprise, and peered through the dark, his hopes enclosed by fears, then a deep moan escaped him.

  “Father?” he murmured.

  He seemed to be hearing the old voice: “Good evening, Adham.”

  His eyes swam with tears. He tried to get up but could not. He felt a delight, a bliss that he had not known in twenty years.

  “Let me believe,” he stammered.

  “You are crying, but it is you who sinned.”

  “The sin was great and the punishment was great,” said Adham in a voice choked with tears. “But even the lowe
st insects don’t despair of finding some shade.”

  “So you are teaching me wisdom!”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m plagued by grief and illness—even my sheep are threatened with ruin.”

  “That is very nice, that you are concerned for the sheep.”

  “Have you forgiven me?” Adham asked hopefully.

  There was silence, then: “Yes.”

  “Thank God!” said Adham, his whole body trembling. “Only a little while ago I was trapped in the lowest pit of despair!”

  “And you found me there!”

  “Yes—it is like waking up from a nightmare.”

  “That’s what makes you a good son.”

  “I begot a murderer and a victim,” sighed Adham.

  “The dead don’t come back. What do you ask?”

  Adham sighed. “I used to yearn to be back singing in the garden, but today nothing can make me happy.”

  “The estate will belong to your children.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Don’t excite yourself. Go back to sleep.”

  —

  In more or less close succession, first Adham, then Umaima, then Idris left this life. Their children grew up. Qadri came back after a long absence, with Hind and their children. They grew up together and married among the others, and grew in number. Their neighborhood flourished, thanks to income from the estate, and thus our alley entered history; and from all these people were descended the people of our alley.

  Gabal

  24

  The estate put up houses in two facing rows, thus creating our alley. The two rows ran from a spot in front of the mansion and extended straight out in the direction of Gamaliya. The mansion stood isolated on all sides, at the head of the alley on the desert side. Our alley, Gabalawi Alley, is the longest in the whole area. Most of its houses have courtyards, as in Hamdan Alley, though there are more huts from halfway down the alley to Gamaliya. And the picture would not be complete without the house of the estate overseer at the end of the right-hand row of dwellings, and the gangster’s house at the end of the left row, just opposite.