He answered without stopping: “God’s will, after his long life. Gabalawi is dead!”
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The three of them headed back into the basement. Arafa’s feet could barely carry him. He fell on the sofa.
“The man I killed was a miserable-looking black servant. He was sleeping in the side room.”
Neither of them said a word. They buried their gazes in the floor to avoid his wild eyes.
“I can see you don’t believe me! I swear to you both, I never even went near his bed.”
Hanash hesitated for long moments, but sensed that talking was better than silence, so he spoke cautiously. “Maybe you didn’t see his face clearly, you were so surprised?”
“Never!” shouted Arafa miserably. “You weren’t with me.”
“Lower your voice,” said Awatif, frightened.
He left them, hurrying into the back room, where he sat in the dark, shaking with fear. What insanity had moved him to make that doomed excursion! Yes—doomed. The earth shook below him and leaked tragedy from its core. This eerie room was the only hope he had left.
The first rays of sunlight glistened, and all the people began to gather in the alley around the mansion. The news was whispered and spread quickly, especially when the overseer made a brief visit to the mansion, after which he went home. The people said that thieves had burglarized the mansion through a tunnel they had dug underneath the rear wall, and killed a faithful servant. When Gabalawi got the news, he suffered a shock that his frail health could not withstand, not at his age; and he gave up the ghost. People’s anger was so great that its black smoke prevented them from weeping or screaming. When Awatif and Hanash told Arafa the news, he said, “That shows I was right!”
At once he remembered that he had been the cause of his death anyway, and fell back into a shamed and pained silence.
Awatif did not know what to say. “God rest his soul!” she murmured.
“He didn’t exactly die young,” observed Hanash.
“But I caused his death!” Arafa said, in the sad tone the poets used. “I’m worse than any of his other descendants, even the evil ones, and there are so many of them!”
“You went with only good intentions,” Awatif said, weeping.
“Isn’t it possible they might have evidence against us?” asked Hanash uneasily.
“Let’s get out of here!” said Awatif.
“If we did that,” Arafa said, pointing irritably at Awatif, “we’d give them the clearest proof of our crime.”
There were hostile cries from the crowded street.
“We must kill the murderer before we bury the victim!”
“This is the worst generation yet in our alley. Even the worst people respected the mansion, throughout our history—even Idris himself! We’ll be cursed until the Judgment Day!”
“The killers aren’t from our alley. How could they be?”
“We’ll get all the facts about this.”
“We’ll be cursed until the Judgment Day.”
The clamor and lamentation grew more intense, until Hanash’s nerves gave out. “How can we stay in the alley after today!”
The Al Gabal suggested burying Gabalawi in the Gabal Cemetery: they considered that they were more closely related to him than any other community, and hated the idea of him being buried in the same cemetery that held Idris and the remains of Gabalawi’s other family members. The Al Rifaa asked that he be buried in the same grave he had dug for Rifaa with his own hands. The Al Qassem said that Qassem had been Gabalawi’s finest grandson, and that his tomb was the most fitting resting place for the body of the venerable ancestor. There was almost a riot in the alley, with the body going unburied. But Qadri, the overseer, announced that Gabalawi would be buried in the mosque that had been built on the site of the old estate office in the mansion. This solution met with substantial public relief, although the people of the alley regretted that they would be deprived of the sight of his funeral, just as they had always been deprived of the sight of the man himself in life. The Al Rifaa whispered delightedly that Gabalawi would be buried in the grave he had dug for Rifaa with his own hands. No one but themselves believed that old story, and people ridiculed them about it until their protector, Agag, grew angry and nearly got into a fight with Santuri. At that point, Saadallah began to pay attention, and shouted his warning at them.
“I will smash the head of any troublemaker who tries to mar the respect of this sad day!”
Only Gabalawi’s closest servants witnessed the washing of the body. They were the ones who shrouded it and placed it on the bier, and carried the bier to the great hall that had witnessed the most momentous events of the family: his handing over the estate management to Adham, and Idris’ rebellion against that. Then the overseer and the leaders of Gabal, Rifaa and Qassem were summoned to pray over him, and after that, as the sun sloped toward the horizon, he was placed in his grave. In the evening, everyone in the alley went to the funeral tent. Arafa and Hanash went with the group from the Al Rifaa. Arafa had not slept since committing his crime, and his face was like a corpse’s. The people talked of nothing but the greatness of Gabalawi, conqueror of the desert, master of all men, the symbol of power and courage, owner of the estate and the alley, and first father of succeeding generations. Arafa looked sad, but no one could have imagined what was in his heart. The man who had attacked the mansion cared nothing for its glory; he had confirmed his ancestor’s existence only with his death! He had turned away from everyone and polluted his hands forever. He asked himself how he could ever atone for such a crime; the exploits of Gabal, Rifaa and Qassem were not enough for that. Getting rid of the overseer and the gangsters, and saving the alley from their criminality, was not enough either. Teaching everyone magic, its arts and benefits, was not enough. Only one thing would do it: to become so proficient in magic that he could bring Gabalawi back to life! Gabalawi, who had been easier to kill than to see. The passage of time would give him strength to heal the terrible wound in his heart. These gangsters and their lying tears. But oh! and oh! again! None of them had sinned as he had. The gangsters sat gloomily, covered with shame and disgrace: other alleys would say that Gabalawi had been murdered in his house while the gangsters sat around smoking hashish. That is why their stares promised revenge; why calamity and death could be read in their eyes.
When Arafa went back to the basement late that night, he drew Awatif to him and spoke with pleading despair. “Awatif, tell me the truth. Do you think I’m a criminal?”
“You are a good man,” she said tenderly. “You are the best man I ever met in my life, but you have the worst luck!”
He closed his eyes. “No one has ever been torn apart by the kind of pain I’m feeling.”
“Yes. I know that.” She kissed him with her cold lips and whispered, “I’m afraid we’re cursed.”
He looked away from her.
“I’m worried,” said Hanash. “They’ll find us out today or tomorrow. I don’t think they’ll find out everything about Gabalawi—his origins, the estate, him and his sons, his contacts with Gabal, Rifaa and Qassem—but they’ll find out about his death!”
Arafa took an uncomfortable breath. “Do you have any solution, aside from escaping?”
Hanash said nothing.
“Me, I have a plan,” said Arafa. “Though I’d like to reassure myself before putting it into action. I can’t act if I’m a criminal.”
“You’re innocent,” said Hanash wearily.
“I am going to act, Hanash. Don’t worry about us. It will distract the alley from the crime. Wonders will take place, and the most wonderful thing of all will be that Gabalawi will come back to life.”
“Oh!” said Awatif.
“Are you crazy?” Hanash asked, scowling.
“One word from our ancestor, and his good grandchildren worked until they died,” he said feverishly. “His death is stronger than his words. A good son has to do all he can. To take his place, to be him, do you understand
?”
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Arafa prepared to leave the basement as soon as the last sound in the alley had died away. Awatif walked him as far as the hall, her eyes red with crying. She spoke in a weak and resigned voice.
“I hope you’ll be safe.”
“Why can’t I go with you?” asked Hanash insistently.
“It’s easier for one person to escape than for two,” said Arafa.
Hanash patted him on the back, but advised him, “Only use the bottle as a last resort.”
He nodded in agreement and left, with a glance at the alley, immersed in darkness; then headed toward Gamaliya. He followed a long, circuitous route that took him through Watawit Alley, al-Darasa and the desert behind the mansion, until he reached the wall of Saadallah’s house that overlooked the desert from the north. He made for a spot halfway down the wall, and felt the earth there until he found a particular stone. He rolled it aside, then disappeared into the passage he and Hanash had dug so tirelessly, night after night. He crawled on his belly to the end of the tunnel, then worked with his scabby hands to remove the panel that blocked it. He emerged in the garden of the gangster’s house, and hid by the wall to look the place over. He saw a closed window that glowed with a dim light. The garden was sunk in sleep and shadow, except for a wakeful light in the window of the reception hall. Every few moments loud noises and crude laughter burst from the hall. He slowly drew a dagger from his shirt and waited eagerly. Time’s passing weighed heavier than sin, but the group broke up a half hour after his arrival. The door opened and the men filed out toward the outer gate that opened onto the alley. The gatekeeper preceded them, holding a lantern, closed the gate after them and came back, walking in front of Saadallah toward the terrace. Arafa picked up a stone from the ground in his left hand, and proceeded, crouching low, the dagger in his right hand. He hid behind a palm tree until Saadallah began to ascend the first steps of the flight of stairs. Arafa pounced, sinking the dagger in his back, above the heart. The man yelped, then collapsed on the ground. The gatekeeper turned, terrified, but the stone smashed into the lantern, putting it out. Arafa ran quickly toward the wall where he had come in. The gatekeeper howled, and in no time there were the sounds of running and a confusion of voices inside the house and at the end of the garden. Arafa tripped over a protrusion, perhaps a tree stump, and fell on his face. Pain shot through his leg and elbow, but he mastered the pain, and crawled the rest of the way to the tunnel. The shouts intensified and the footsteps grew louder. He threw himself into the passage and crawled rapidly through it until he came out in the desert. There he stood up, with a moan, and headed east. Before making the turn around the wall of the mansion, he looked behind him, saw figures rushing toward him and heard someone shout, “This way!” He doubled his speed, in spite of the pain, until he reached the end of the mansion’s back wall. When he crossed the empty space between the mansion and the overseer’s house, he noticed lights like torches and heard shouts. He headed into the desert, for Muqattam Marketplace, feeling sure that the pain would get the better of him sooner or later, that his pursuers’ steps were getting closer and their voices clearer in the silence: “Grab him! Surround him!” At this point he took the bottle out of his breast pocket; this was the bottle he had spent months testing. He stopped running, faced the oncoming men and squinted until he could make out the figures before throwing the bottle at them. In less than a second came the reverberation of an explosion such as had never been heard before, followed by screams and moans. He resumed running, even though there were no footsteps behind him now. At the edge of the desert, he flung himself on the ground, panting and gasping. He was still in pain, crippled and alone under the stars. He looked back, but there was nothing but darkness and silence. With his hand he wiped away some of the blood running down his leg, then dried it with sand. He felt that he should go on, whatever the cost, and struggled up, bracing himself with his hands. Ignoring the pain, he walked toward al-Darasa. As soon as he entered al-Darasa, he caught sight of an approaching figure, and watched it, cautious and fearful, but the figure passed by without turning toward him. Arafa sighed with relief and set off for home by the same route he had used to come. When he neared Gabalawi Alley, he heard noises unusual for that latest time of night: a mixture of bellowing voices, weeping and angry cries that warned of unpredictable mischief in the dark. He paused, then proceeded, keeping very close to the walls. With one eye he glanced at one corner of the alley, and saw crowds of people gathered at another, between the overseer’s house and Saadallah’s. The Al Qassem neighborhood looked deserted and dark. He slipped along by the wall until he was in the building. He flung himself between Awatif and Hanash and showed them his bloody leg. Awatif was horrified and went away, but came back with a basin full of water and began to wash the wound while he gritted his teeth so that he would not cry out in pain. Hanash helped her.
“Their rage is blazing like fire out there,” he told her uneasily.
“What did they say about the explosion?” Arafa grimaced.
“The ones who were chasing you described what happened, and no one believed them. They just stood there gaping at the wounds on their faces and necks. The explosion story almost eclipsed the killing of Saadallah!”
“The gangster of this alley is dead,” said Arafa. “Tomorrow the rest of the gangsters will start hacking one another to pieces to take his place!” He looked at his wife, absorbed in tenderly bandaging his wound. “The era of the gangsters is about to disappear, and the first gangster to go will be your father’s murderer.”
But she did not reply. Hanash’s eyes glinted worriedly. Arafa rested his head in his hand, the pain was so great.
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Early the next morning, someone tapped at the basement door, and when Awatif opened it she saw Yunis, the gatekeeper of the overseer’s house. She greeted him softly and invited him in, but he stood where he was.
“His excellency the overseer has summoned Arafa, to consult with him urgently!”
Awatif went to tell Arafa. This lofty invitation gave her little of the natural pleasure it would have brought in other circumstances.
After a short delay, Arafa came out dressed in his best clothes: a white galabiya, a speckled turban and clean leather slippers, but leaning on a cane because of an unexpected but pronounced limp. He greeted Yunis with a raised hand. “Here I am.”
The gatekeeper set off, and Arafa followed. The alley was overcome with gloom from one end to the other. All eyes were anxious, as if dreading what catastrophes the next day would bring. All the gangsters’ hangers-on were consulting with one another in the coffeehouses, amid the sounds of uninterrupted wailing and lamentation from Saadallah’s house. Arafa entered the overseer’s house behind the gatekeeper and walked down the passage roofed with jasmine trellises until they reached the terrace. He considered the similarities between this house and the mansion; there were so many that he decided the only difference was one of scale. He thought resentfully, You imitate him in what benefits you, not what benefits everyone else! The gatekeeper went ahead to announce him, then turned and motioned him in. He passed into the great hall and saw Qadri, the overseer, seated at the far end, waiting for him. He stopped about an arm’s length away from him and bowed respectfully from the waist. The overseer seemed, at first glance, tall and powerfully built, with a fat, ruddy face. When he smiled to acknowledge the greeting, his mouth revealed filthy yellow teeth very much out of keeping with his otherwise magnificent appearance. He motioned for him to sit down beside him on the divan, but Arafa sat instead in the nearest chair. “Never mind, Your Excellency.”
But the overseer persisted in his invitation, indicating the divan and speaking in a tone that combined kindness and command. “Here. Sit here.”
Arafa had no choice but to sit beside him, but at the far end of the divan. This must be secret business, he said to himself, and this was confirmed when he saw the gatekeeper lock the hall door. He remained submissively silent, while the overseer ga
zed at him tranquilly, and then spoke in a quiet and confiding tone. “Arafa. Why did you kill Saadallah?”
Their eyes locked. His joints felt weak, and things began to spin. The future became the past. He saw the man looking at him self-confidently, and did not doubt that he knew everything. It was fate. Qadri gave him no more time, but spoke again, a little sharply. “Don’t be afraid! How could you kill someone if you were this fearful? Pull yourself together and answer me. Tell me truthfully why you killed Saadallah.”
Arafa hated the sound of the silence, so he spoke, but hardly knew what he was saying. “Sir—me?”
“You little bastard! Do you think I’m raving? Or that I have no proof? Answer me. Why did you kill him?”
Torn with confusion and desperation, he looked meaninglessly all around the hall.
The overseer spoke again, in a voice as cold as death. “There is no way out, Arafa. If the people outside knew about you, they would tear you apart with their teeth and drink your blood.”
The wailing from the gangster’s house grew louder. His hopes were buried in the dirt. He opened his mouth but said nothing.
“Silence is an easy way out,” said the overseer cruelly. “Of course, then I’d just throw you to those savages outside and tell them, ‘Here is Saadallah’s killer.’ Or, if I wanted, ‘Here is Gabalawi’s killer!’ Gabalawi!” he shouted harshly.
“You dig tunnels under back walls. You escaped the first time, and fell down the next time. But why do you kill, Arafa?”
“I’m innocent, Your Excellency, innocent!” said Arafa in despair, but meaninglessly and almost unintentionally.
“If I made the charge against you public, no one would even ask me for proof,” said the overseer derisively. “In our alley, rumor is truth, truth is a judgment, and the judgment is death. But tell me, what made you attack the mansion? And kill Saadallah?”
Children of the Alley Page 42
