Children of the Alley

by Naguib Mahfouz

  “But it’s such a hot route!”

  “That’s why I’m taking a break in the shadow of the rock.” She laughed.

  They sat close to one another in the shade where he had left his staff.

  “When I saw what you did yesterday,” Sakina said, “I knew your mother really prayed for you from her heart before she died.”

  “Don’t you pray for me?” he said, smiling.

  She looked away with her sly face. “I pray for a nice wife for someone like you!”

  “Who will be satisfied with a shepherd?” He laughed.

  “Luck works miracles, and now you’re the equal of any protector, without having to shed any blood.”

  “I swear—your tongue is sweeter than a honey dew melon.”

  She gave him a frank stare with her weak eyes. “Should I tell you something wonderful to do?”

  “Yes,” he said, suddenly excited.

  With African candor she said, “Try your luck and propose to the lady in our neighborhood.”

  Everything suddenly seemed different. “Who do you mean, Sakina?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t understand. There is only one lady in our neighborhood.”

  “Qamar!”

  “No one else.”

  “Her husband was a great man. I’m only a shepherd!” he said unsteadily.

  “But when luck laughs, everyone may laugh along, even the poor.”

  “What if my proposal angers her?”

  Sakina stood up. “No one knows when a woman will be happy or angry. Trust God. You take care of yourself,” she said as she left.

  He raised his face to the sky and closed his eyes, as if overtaken by drowsiness.

  69

  Zachary and his wife stared perplexedly into Qassem’s face, and so did Hassan, as they sat out on the porch of their lodging after dinner.

  “Say anything but that,” his uncle said. “I’ve known you to be a model of good sense and honor, even though you’re poor, even though we’re poor. What has happened to you?”

  A burning desire for information brightened his aunt’s eyes.

  “I have support for this—her slave is the one who brought it up with me.”

  “Her slave!” his aunt gasped, her eyes pleading for more.

  His uncle laughed briefly, showing his bewilderment, and said dubiously, “Maybe you misunderstood.”

  “No, uncle,” said Qassem calmly, to hide his irritation.

  “I understand it!” exclaimed his aunt. “The slave said it because the lady said it!”

  “There is no man better than Qassem,” said Hassan, moved by his well-known love for his cousin.

  “ ‘Fabulous potatoes, roasted potatoes,’ ” muttered Zachary, shaking his head. “But you have no money!”

  “He tends her ewe, and she can’t ignore that,” said his aunt. She laughed. “Make sure you never slaughter a ewe for the rest of your life, in honor of Naama, Qassem!”

  “The grocer Uwais is Qamar’s uncle, and he’s the richest man in the neighborhood,” said Hassan thoughtfully. “He’ll be our in-law, the way Sawaris is our relative—what could be better!”

  “Qamar is related to Lady Amina, the overseer’s wife—through her late husband, who was related to Amina,” said Hassan’s mother.

  “That’s what makes it so hard,” said Qassem uneasily.

  Then Zachary spoke with sudden enthusiasm, as if guessing at the rise in prestige they would all derive from the anticipated match.

  “Talk the way you did the day the upholsterer was robbed. You’re brave and you’re wise. We’ll go to the lady together to talk about it, then we’ll talk to Uwais. If we begin with Uwais, he’ll send us to the mental hospital!”

  Everything transpired just as Zachary had planned, and soon Uwais was sitting in the reception room of Qamar’s house, stroking his bushy mustache to conceal his restlessness as he waited for her to come in. Qamar entered, wearing a simple dress and a brown scarf covering her head. She greeted him politely and took a seat, a look of calm resolution in her eyes.

  “You’ve really confused me!” Uwais said. “Only recently you refused the hand of Mursi, my business assistant, because you said he wasn’t good enough for you, and today you’re happy with a shepherd!”

  “Uncle,” she said, blushing modestly, “he is a poor man, of course, but there isn’t anyone in our neighborhood who doesn’t testify to his goodness, and his family’s.”

  Uwais frowned. “Yes, but the same way we testify to a servant’s being reliable or clean. Fitness as a husband is something else!”

  “Uncle,” she said politely, “show me any man in our alley as well-bred as he is—show me just one who doesn’t brag about his acts of bullying, savagery or meanness!”

  The man almost exploded with anger, but remembered that he was dealing not only with his niece but with a woman who owned a substantial share of his business, so he spoke with polite urgency. “Qamar, if you wished, I could marry you to any gangster in the alley. Lahita himself would want you, if you agreed to share him with his other wives.”

  “I don’t like these gangsters, or that kind of man anyway. My father was a good man, like you, and with all he had to endure from them, he passed his hatred of them on to me. Qassem is a well-bred man who lacks nothing but money, and I have enough money for two.”

  Uwais sighed and looked at her for a long time before making his last try. “I have a message for you from Lady Amina, the wife of his excellency the overseer. She told me, ‘Tell Qamar to come to her senses. She’s moving toward a mistake that will make us the talk of the alley.’ ”

  “That lady’s orders don’t interest me,” said Qamar sharply. “It’s too bad she doesn’t know whose doings have made them the talk of the alley.”

  “She’s only worried about your honor.”

  “Oh, uncle, don’t think that she worries about us at all, or even remembers us! Since my husband died ten years ago, I’ve never even crossed her mind.”

  He paused a long moment, clearly embarrassed, then said with evident difficulty, “She also says that it is not right for a woman to marry a man who does not deserve her, especially when he constantly visits her house!”

  Qamar immediately rose to her feet, her face pale with anger. “Let her watch her tongue!” she exclaimed. “I was born here, I grew up here, I was married and widowed in this alley, everybody knows me, and my reputation is perfect among everyone here!”

  “Of course, of course—she was only indicating what might be said.”

  “Uncle, let’s drop the subject of this lady—she’s nothing but a headache. I have told you, because you are my uncle, that I have agreed to marry Qassem. It will be with your consent and in your presence!”

  Uwais thought this over silently. He had no power to prevent her, and it would not be wise to anger her so much that she might pull her money out of his business. Sad and confused, he stared at the space between his feet. He opened his mouth to say something, but only a cryptic mumble came out. Qamar still gazed at him with steady patience.

  70

  Zachary gave his nephew a few pounds—most of them borrowed—to put himself in order before the wedding.

  “If I could, I’d give you all the money you needed, Qassem,” he said. “Your father was a good brother to me, and I still remember his generosity to me on my wedding day.”

  Qassem bought a galabiya, some underwear, an embroidered turban, some yellow leather slippers, a bamboo cane and a snuffbox. After daybreak he went to the baths and had a steam bath, plunged into the bath, went to the masseur, bathed and was perfumed with incense, then stretched out in a little cell to sip tea and dream of happiness.

  Qamar took charge of the wedding party. She prepared the roof of her house for the women, invited a famous lady singer and hired the most skillful cook in the whole neighborhood. A pavilion was set up in the courtyard for the male guests and their singer. Qassem’s family and friends came, and the neighborhood men arrived wi
th Sawaris at the head of them. Glasses of barley beer and twenty pipes were passed around, until the bright lamps were indistinct in the smoke, and the glorious aroma of hashish spread everywhere. Every corner of the house rang with the women’s trilling, cheers and laughter, and, light-headed from drinking, Zachary bragged, “We are a fine old family, a noble family!”

  Uwais held in his anger at this as he sat between Sawaris and Zachary, saying only, “Well, you are related to Sawaris!”

  “God bless Sawaris!” bellowed Zachary.

  The musicians immediately struck up for Sawaris, who managed a smile and a wave. The gangster had, in the past, been exasperated by Zachary’s insistently bringing up their distant kinship, but his feelings changed when he learned of Qassem’s marriage to Qamar. He had decided secretly not to release Qassem from paying protection money.

  “Everybody loves Qassem,” Zachary resumed. “Who in our alley does not love him?” Then, as if he had read something untoward in Sawaris’ stare, he added, “If it hadn’t been for his wisdom the day of the robbery, the heads of our Rifaa and Gabal neighbors would have had nothing to save them from the club of our protector, Sawaris!”

  Sawaris’ features relaxed, and Uwais agreed with what Zachary had said. “That’s true, by the Lord of the heavens and the earth!”

  “The time for playful union nears,” the singer crooned.

  Qassem seemed to grow more uncomfortable, and Sadeq, as usual, noticed quickly, and handed him a fresh glass of beer, which he drank to the last drop, down to the dregs, still holding the pipe in his other hand. Hassan had had so much to drink that the patterns on the pavilion’s fabric danced before his eyes, and this did not escape Uwais’ notice.

  “Hassan drinks too much for someone his age,” he told Zachary.

  Zachary got up, glass in hand, and told his son in a confiding tone, “Hassan, don’t drink like that.”

  He answered “like that” by swallowing a whole glass in a confusion of laughter and gaiety. Uwais’ anger writhed within him, and he said to himself, “If it weren’t for my niece’s silliness, what you’ve drunk tonight would cost you a thousand times what you have!”

  At midnight, Qassem was summoned for the wedding procession, and all of the men headed for the Dingil Coffeehouse, led by Sawaris, the head of the procession and its protector. The street outside the house was crowded with boys, beggars and cats who had been drawn there by the smells from the kitchen. Qassem sat between Hassan and Sadeq, and Dingil welcomed them and told his boy, “A happy night! Get my own pipe for these fine young men.”

  Then all the prosperous men offered pipes to everyone there, at their own expense.

  The singers showed up, followed by the drummers and horn players, and Sawaris got up and commanded, “Let’s begin the procession.”

  Plump Ka’abura led the procession, wearing a galabiya with nothing on underneath, dancing barefoot and balancing a club on his head. The singers were next, then Sawaris, then the bridegroom and his parade of friends, with lines of torchbearers flanking everyone. The singer began, in a pleasant voice.

  First, oh! these eyes of mine.

  Second, oh! these hands of mine.

  Third, oh! these feet of mine.

  What entangled me first with my love were my eyes.

  When I greeted my love it was with my hands.

  Now I’m guided along to my love by my feet!

  Shouts of pleasure rose from all the drunken and drugged mouths as the procession wound its way to Gamaliya, Bait al-Qadi, al-Hussein and al-Darasa, and the night passed, unheeded by the happy partygoers. The procession went back the way it had come, gay and noisy. It was the first procession ever to come off peacefully: no club was raised and no blood was shed. Zachary’s rapture reached its peak, and he snatched his stick and began to dance. He played with the stick and swayed haughtily, swung now his head, now his chest, then his middle. His exuberant dance steps were, by turns, warlike and suggestive; he spun around for his finale, amid cheers and handclapping.

  With that, Qassem left for the women’s quarters. He saw Qamar sitting in the middle of two rows of her guests, and walked to her amidst waves of excited trilling. He took her hand and she stood up, and they walked out, led by a dancer who seemed to be giving them their final lesson, until they were alone in the bridal chamber. With the door closed, they were completely cut off from the outside world, now plunged into silence, except for faint whispers or footsteps. In one glance, Qassem saw the rose-colored bed, the cozy sofa and the ornate carpet, things he had never dreamed of, and then his eyes settled on the woman, who was sitting down, taking the jewels out of her hair. She seemed stately, soft-skinned and radiantly beautiful; the walls gazed down on her with a pearly light. He saw everything through his restlessness, excitement and overflowing happiness. He came near her in his silk galabiya, his body giving off heat mingled with the smell of liquor, until he stood before her, looking down at her; her eyes were cast down, as if in expectation. He took her face between his palms, and was about to say something, but seemed to change his mind. He leaned over her until her hair trembled under his breath, then kissed her forehead and cheeks.

  His nose detected the scent of incense wafting in from behind the door, and he heard Sakina’s voice reciting some obscure incantation.

  71

  Days and nights of love, devotion and relaxation passed—how sweet is the happiness of this world. The only reason he ever left the house was to avoid embarrassment, lest people say that he had not left his house since his wedding. His heart overflowed to the point of drunkenness, with every kind of delight, as he enjoyed all the love, tenderness and attention he had ever wanted. He became fond of cleanliness, seeing everything in this place orderly, finding the very atmosphere perfumed with incense, and a woman who saw him only when she was beautified, her face clearly radiant with love. One day as they sat side by side in the sitting room, she said to him, “To me, you’re like a meek little lamb—you don’t ask for anything, you don’t give orders or scold anyone, when everything in this house belongs to you!”

  He brushed away a lock of her hennaed hair. “I’ve come to a point when I have all I need!”

  She pressed his hand hard. “I always knew in my heart that you were the best man in our neighborhood, but your good manners sometimes make you look like a stranger in your own house. Don’t you know that that hurts me?”

  “You’re talking to a man that good luck brought from the hot sands to the paradise of this happy home.”

  She tried to look serious, but her smile won out as she said, “Don’t think you’re going to get any rest in my house. Any day now you’re going to take my uncle’s place managing my property. I wonder if you’ll take that on.”

  “It’s play, compared with being a shepherd.”

  He did take over the management of her property, which was spread everywhere from the Desert Rats’ territory to Gamaliya. Dealing with quarrelsome tenants called for great ingenuity, but his tact helped everything go as smoothly as possible. The job required only a few days of his time each month, and apart from that he had leisure he had never known before. Perhaps the greatest triumph he scored in his new life was winning the confidence of his wife’s Uncle Uwais. He had shown him respect and attention from the very start, and volunteered to help him out in some of his business tasks, until the man got used to him and reciprocated Qassem’s warmth and respect. One day Uwais could not help telling him straight out, “Really, some thoughts are terrible. Do you know that I used to think you were one of this alley’s philanderers! And that you would exploit my niece’s affection just to get her money and squander it away whoring around, or use it to marry some other woman! But you’ve proven yourself to be a trustworthy and wise man. She made a good choice.”

  In the coffeehouse, Sadeq laughed delightedly and said, “Treat us to a pipe, the way big men like you have to!”

  And Hassan said, “Why don’t you take us to a bar?”

  “I have no money ex
cept what I get for managing my wife’s property, or for the jobs I do for Uwais,” Qassem now answered them.

  Sadeq was astonished, and told him, “A woman in love is a plaything in a man’s hand!”

  “Unless the man is in love too!” said Qassem angrily. He stared at him rebukingly. “You’re like all the others in this alley, Sadeq. They think love is just another way of exploiting others.”

  Sadeq smiled sheepishly. “That’s how weak people think,” he said apologetically. “We aren’t as strong as Hassan, or even as strong as you, and I have no ambition to be a gangster—and in our alley, either you beat people or you get beaten!”

  “What a strange alley,” said Qassem, dropping his sharp tone to show that the apology was accepted. “You’re right, Sadeq, the state of this alley is enough to make you despair.”

  “Oh, if only it were really the place other people think it is!” Hassan said, smiling.

  Sadeq agreed. “They say, ‘Gabalawi Alley! That’s the place for real men.’ ”

  Melancholy filled Qassem’s face, and he stole a sidelong glance at where Sawaris sat, in the front of the coffeehouse, to make sure that he was out of earshot before he spoke. “As if they’ve never heard about our misery.”

  “People worship power—even its victims do!”

  Qassem thought a few moments. “The thing is that power that does good, like the power of Gabal or Rifaa, is different from the power of bullies and criminals.”

  “Adham cried to him, saying, ‘Carry your brother!’ ” said Taza the poet, continuing his story, “and Qadri wailed, ‘I can’t.’ ‘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.’ ”

  The poet picked up the rebec and began his chant.

  “Right now, you are living the life Adham dreamed of!” Sadeq said to Qassem.