The Harafish

by Naguib Mahfouz

  He felt more passionately bound to his wife and children, and to food, drink, worship, life itself. He even loved the clouds of winter. He delighted in everything around him, including the sounds of people swearing at each other. He was only sorry he could not tell his children stories of Ashur and Shams al-Din, that they would grow up ignorant of their blessed roots, of the dream, of Saint Khidr’s friendship. Would Rummana ever know that he was a Nagi? “Make the most of every new day and don’t have any regrets,” he told himself.

  36.

  He was writing an entry in his private diary when something made him look up. Muhammad Tawakkul, sheikh of his native alley, was passing inches away from the door of his shop. He gave it a brief glance as he went by. Samaha’s heart jumped with shock, and terror cut through him like an ax. Had the man seen him? Did he remember him?

  He noticed him from a distance sitting in the local sheikh’s shop. The two men were talking and laughing, Muhammad letting his eye roam at will over the passersby. This was certain death. The man would be only too happy to collaborate with the authorities, to gladden al-Fulali’s heart with the news of his arrest. Even if the sheikh had been blind, Samaha would not have felt safe from that day on. Bulaq had become legal territory for his enemies.

  News went around that Muhammad Tawakkul wanted to marry the daughter of the scrap metal dealer. He had probably accompanied al-Fulali the first time and seen her and he fancied her as a second wife. Now he would be as much at home in Bulaq as in al-Husayn. Bulaq was no longer a safe hiding place.

  37.

  Mahasin gave him a searching glance. “What’s on your mind?”

  The children were all asleep and she was hovering around him, beautifully dressed and made-up as usual, sensing a problem.

  “Several things,” he said.

  “Business?” she asked apprehensively.

  “Business is fine, but I have to go away for a while.”

  “To Upper Egypt?”

  “Maybe.”

  “But what for?”

  Ignoring her question, he said, “I’ll be away for a few years.”

  “A few years! Take us with you.”

  “I’d love to, but it’s impossible.”

  She frowned suspiciously.

  “It’s not a business trip. I’m running away,” he said.

  “Running away?”

  “I’ll tell you a story of flight and injustice, Mahasin!”

  38.

  He said goodbye to his wife and children and slipped out of the house shortly before dawn. By early morning Mahasin was standing in the shop and had embarked on a new life. She was depressed and ill at ease with her secret, uncertain whether to believe her husband’s tale. He had deceived her for years. Perhaps he had his reasons, but still he had deceived her. So was he finally telling the truth, or just more lies?

  The sheikh dropped in and asked after her husband, curious to know what was keeping him at home.

  “He’s gone to Upper Egypt,” she said miserably.

  “I spoke to him yesterday and he didn’t mention it,” said the man in surprise.

  “Well, he’s gone,” she said listlessly.

  “He’s very ambitious. But you’re not yourself, Mahasin.”

  “I’m fine, sir.”

  “When’s he coming back?”

  She maintained a gloomy silence.

  “Is it another woman?” he inquired cautiously.

  “Certainly not.”

  “How long is he away for?”

  “Several years.”

  “Good grief!”

  “That’s the way it goes.”

  “But you’re hiding something.”

  “Not at all.”

  “You never know where you are with Upper Egyptians,” he said on his way out.

  39.

  The sheikh told the news to everyone he met, including Muhammad Tawakkul who was staying with him at the time. To his surprise, his guest showed some interest.

  “Is he the Upper Egyptian with a beard?” he asked.

  “That’s the one,” answered the Bulaq sheikh.

  Muhammad Tawakkul closed his eyes in thought.

  40.

  An hour later the alley was shaken by a military raid. A detachment of men stormed Badr al-Saidi’s house, while a detective named Hilmi Abd al-Basit conducted an inquiry in his shop. People swarmed around like ants.

  “Where is Samaha Sulayman al-Nagi?” Hilmi Abd al-Basit asked Mahasin roughly.

  “I don’t know anyone of that name,” she answered confidently.

  “Really! What about Badr al-Saidi?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Liar.”

  “Don’t be insulting. What do you want with an honorable man?”

  “Honorable! You know very well he’s on the run to escape the gallows.”

  “God forbid! Everyone around here knows him.”

  “You’re coming with me to the police station,” he shouted.

  “I’ve got three children. There’s nobody to look after them. What do you want with me?” she wailed.

  41.

  They searched the house and the shop. Mahasin was interrogated thoroughly, then released. The news spread through the alley like wildfire. People were astonished.

  “Badr al-Saidi!”

  “The one with a beard…”

  “The one who was always doing good works!”

  “He’s a killer, fleeing the gallows!”

  “Only his mother-in-law found out, even though she was as bad as him!”

  42.

  Habit gradually stripped the strange events of their novelty. Mahasin put her children into Quran school, and after school she brought them to the shop where she could watch them while they played. She grieved over her husband and her own bad luck, and despite spells of resentment she never forgot that he had left her reasonably well off, even rich, with a thriving business.

  Since the day of the raid the detective, Hilmi Abd al-Basit, often hung around the alley or sat in the sheikh’s shop. She wondered if he was still watching her. She felt his eyes on her and his behavior made her uneasy but she pretended to ignore him. He was a rough, boorish man, tall, with a big head, small eyes, a coarse nose, and a mustache like a vegetable chopper. It was an appearance that boded ill, and brought back bad memories. He was watching her, she was sure of it, so what was on his mind? He would pass by the shop and give it a strange look that made her wonder, or sit talking to the sheikh and stare mercilessly at her. What did he want? Her reason and her instinct both demanded to know, and she was ready for a fight.

  One day he paused in front of her shop. He stepped up to her, breaking in on her thoughts, and asked, smiling, “Do you really believe your husband is innocent?”

  “Yes,” she answered, without raising her eyes to look at him.

  “The killer insisted he was innocent until the rope was around his neck,” he intoned as he went on his way.

  43.

  One morning she saw Muhammad Tawakkul, the sheikh of the al-Husayn quarter, and invited him into her shop. She received him courteously, then confessed, “Perhaps you know what’s bothering me?”

  “May God come to your aid,” he murmured pleasantly.

  “But you’re the only one who knows the truth.”

  “The truth?”

  “About the accusation.”

  Tawakkul said smoothly, “All I know is what was revealed by the inquiry.”

  “But he swore to me that he was innocent.”

  “It was established in court that he killed the girl and fled.”

  Mahasin sighed despairingly, then said, “Tell me about my husband’s family.”

  Muhammad Tawakkul smiled. “They’re descended from a line of clan chiefs of the old days. People tell tales of the miracles they’re supposed to have performed. But I don’t trust our people’s imagination. They believe good began and ended in an obscure past and they don’t distinguish between dreams and reality. They think with
their emotions and their judgments are clouded because of the wretched conditions they live in. They think an angel came down from the skies every now and then to protect their ancestors.”

  “Is al-Fulali one of them?”

  “No. Their reign’s over. None of them would even think about it. These days most of them are paupers or small tradesmen, but your husband belongs to the only wealthy branch of the family that remains. His uncle Khidr is a big merchant. So is his brother, Radwan. Do you want to hand the children over to them?”

  “Certainly not,” she interrupted quickly. “I’ll never give them up. I don’t need anyone’s help. I only asked you because I thought I should know.”

  “They might come to claim them one day.”

  “I’ll do everything in my power to keep them,” exclaimed Mahasin passionately.

  “May God come to your aid,” he said as he rose to leave.

  44.

  As the days passed, Hilmi Abd al-Basit became a regular customer at the shop. Was it all part of his strategy for observing her? But she had deceived herself for long enough: these hungry looks were not those of a spy, and she had done nothing to merit being kept under observation. He hovered around her with infatuated glances and an ingratiating smile, his embarrassed manner betraying his hidden intentions. She knew what was going on instinctively but pretended not to notice, feeling an aversion but avoiding a decision, and her anxiety about the future increased day by day.

  One day he remarked out of the blue, “God forgive him.”

  She looked at him curiously, although she knew who he meant.

  “He left you alone with three children,” he said.

  She said nothing.

  “And even if he escapes, you’ve still got to wait eight years.”

  She frowned.

  “And he’s not going to escape!” he declared with conviction.

  “God is on the side of the oppressed,” she said sadly.

  “I’ve never heard of a killer escaping the hangman’s rope. They always get caught in the end.”

  45.

  The days passed in weary monotony. The unending effort, the worry, the absence of the person who had filled her life tired her out. She had difficulty stocking the shop and the takings fell, although they were still more than adequate. She began to hold Samaha responsible for what had happened to her, especially when the worry and loneliness became too much to bear. Rummana, Qurra, and Wahid often ran wild in the street with no one to take care of them, until the sheikh of the mosque cautioned her. “Your children are exposed to bad influences, Mahasin.”

  “What can I do?” she said regretfully. “They’re not yet of an age to work in the shop.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better if they learned a trade, even just to keep them off the street?”

  She glowered. “I won’t leave them at the mercy of people I don’t trust.”

  This conversation served only to make her increasingly annoyed and anxious.

  46.

  Hilmi Abd al-Basit continued to hover about her. Once he said tenderly to her, “I pity you, Mahasin.”

  “I’m strong and successful,” she answered defiantly.

  “But you’re not free.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re still attached to the hangman’s rope.”

  “I’m quite content,” she said, frowning.

  “But you should free yourself for your own good and the good of the children.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “In a situation like yours a woman can ask for a divorce.”

  She laughed scathingly, but he went on undeterred. “Some decent man would come along and ask you to marry him. You’re really a pearl, you know.”

  He departed, to avoid hearing an unsatisfactory answer.

  47.

  A few minutes after he had gone she heard a cry that shook her to the core. She rushed out of the shop in a frenzy and saw Wahid rolling in the dust, his face covered in blood. Two boys were running off in fright. She had to let them go and, wailing, took her son in her arms. She examined his face. “The child’s lost an eye!” she screamed.

  48.

  Troubled clouds massed in the sky. Misery rained down. Sorrow descended on the world. Temptation glowed like a rainbow.

  49.

  A carriage drew up outside the shop. Mahasin rose from her seat, full of curiosity. A middle-aged man descended from it, followed by a younger man, both of them trailing fine camel-hair cloaks. They came toward her and the older one asked, “Mahasin?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m Khidr Sulayman al-Nagi, your husband Samaha’s uncle, and this is his brother Radwan.”

  Her heart pounded. She offered them a couple of seats, and murmured a greeting.

  “We ought to have got to know one another before, but the news only reached us yesterday!” said Khidr.

  “I quite understand.”

  She was going to say that she had heard a lot about them, but thought better of it.

  “We’re pleased to meet you. Your children are ours too and we’d like to help you in any way we can.”

  “I’m grateful to you, Master Khidr.”

  “We trust in God. The oppressed man will triumph over the wrong done to him,” said Radwan.

  “Samaha’s told me everything. But can’t you prove his innocence?”

  “We’d be risking our lives for a lost cause,” said Khidr sorrowfully.

  “Where are the children?” asked Radwan.

  “At school.” Then the color drained from her cheeks. “The youngest one lost his eye in a fight with some other boys.”

  Khidr and Radwan looked visibly upset.

  “You’ve had a lot to put up with, Mahasin,” remarked Khidr.

  “I’m quite strong. But it’s bad luck,” she responded guardedly.

  Khidr could read her thoughts, but still he inquired, “How do you see the future?”

  “I suppose they’ll work in the shop.”

  Khidr let his eyes stray around him.

  “It brings in more than enough for us to live on, thank goodness,” she added quickly.

  “Perhaps they’d have a better chance if they came to us,” he said gently.

  “I don’t want to give them up.”

  “We won’t force you, but wouldn’t it be wrong to deprive them of the opportunity of a better life?”

  She began chewing at her fingernails, unaware of what she was doing. “We won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do,” repeated Khidr.

  “Think of this as just a friendly visit to make your acquaintance,” said Radwan.

  “To let you know you’re not alone,” said Khidr. “We’re your family too. Take your time, and think over my suggestion. Come with them if you’d like to. Visit them whenever you want. Or keep them here with you. It’s entirely up to you.”

  50.

  As soon as the carriage bells had faded in the distance, Hilmi Abd al-Basit appeared in the shop. “What did those gentlemen want?” he asked with interest.

  These days it was not unusual for her to talk openly to him. She had long since stopped trying to put him off or stand up to him. He was a regular part of her life. Even his ugliness was no longer repellent or disturbing, and so she confided in him without hesitation.

  “It sounds like the right thing to do,” he declared when she paused for breath.

  “Desert my children?”

  “No. Send them to take advantage of their good fortune.”

  “What do you know about a mother’s feelings?”

  “Real motherhood means making sacrifices!”

  “Perhaps what I really ought to do is go there with them,” she said slyly.

  “God forbid!”

  “They’re my family too.”

  “But you’d be a stranger there! You’re from Bulaq and they’re from al-Husayn. This is where you’re respected and have some status.” He looked into her face with his small, greedy eyes and
murmured, “And this is where there’s somebody who loves you more than life itself!”

  51.

  Nothing is permanent except change. The eternal circle of suffering and joy. When the leaves turn green again, and the flowers bloom and the fruit ripens, the sting of winter’s cold is effaced from the memory.

  52.

  Events follow their course, and convention and religion cannot ignore them. Inflexible resolve yields to compassion, like a coconut releasing its sweet milk. Rummana, Qurra, and Wahid moved from Bulaq to Khidr al-Nagi’s house. The boys had no idea what it was all about. They were on the verge of tears as they said goodbye, and Mahasin wept bitterly. To justify her decision, she claimed that the Nagi family had threatened to take her to court. She made excuses to herself for this behavior, but she was genuinely and profoundly sad. Her heart beat with conflicting emotions, like an apricot with its sweet flesh and bitter kernel. Achieving happiness for her sons at the cost of giving them up. Being faithful to Samaha and yet constantly aware that he had deceived her, then left her on her own. Choosing whether to endure frustration or yield to life’s exuberant flow; whether to give in to temptation or legalize greedy instincts by getting married again. She convinced herself that she was a weak woman and as such should take steps to avoid improper behavior. The imam of the mosque, the local sheikh, and most of her neighbors backed her up.

  “You’ll gain nothing from being faithful to a killer.”

  “Or from being young and beautiful without a husband.”

  Could she forget how a bad reputation had clung to her mother all her days? Moreover, marriage to a detective would be seen as highly desirable by most people.

  So Mahasin handed her sons over to Samaha’s family, and got a divorce from Samaha, the fugitive killer.

  53.

  Her marriage to the detective, Hilmi Abd al-Basit, took place in an atmosphere of warmth and gaiety. She bought new clothes and furniture but stayed in the same flat, and went on working in the shop to preserve her independence and honor, given that she was the man’s third wife. She had some trouble adjusting to life with Abd al-Basit after Samaha, but the new generally obscures the old and dilutes past memories, especially if, as in this case, it has its own considerable merits. So she grew fond of him as time passed and bore his children. She paid regular visits to her three sons at Khidr’s house and was received with cordial respect by the family, and with great affection by her children. They quickly grew acclimatized to their new environment, and seemed to have changed, but they did not forget their mother, or their old games and companions, or even their father who had been absent for so long. But as time went by and she had more children with Abd al-Basit, the gaps between visits grew longer. In the end they had become so rare that one day her children came to visit her at Bulaq in the carriage, but the cold reception they were given by Abd al-Basit ensured that they never did it again. Relations between mother and sons flagged until they were almost nonexistent. Even the strongest passions are assaulted, either gently or fiercely, by the passage of time.