The Harafish

by Naguib Mahfouz

  54.

  Abd al-Basit only spent his money during their honeymoon. After that he announced to her bluntly, “You’re rich and I’m poor. Married couples are supposed to help one another.”

  She protested at this attitude, which seemed like a devaluing of her love, but she achieved nothing. Both of them could be violent and stubborn, and she was not about to sacrifice the benefits of her new married life after having suffered so much to obtain them.

  Abd al-Basit was unmoved and borrowed from her whenever he needed money. His debts piled up and there was not the faintest hope of him repaying them. Because of this they often quarreled, exchanging words and blows and becoming extremely violent toward one another. But life went on and caresses and sighs of desire succeeded the cursing and beating with monotonous regularity. She gave birth to one child after another until she ended up with six. The one thing unaffected by change was the constant care she gave to preserving her beauty and femininity.

  55.

  The days passed, life burgeoned, and the fates gathered on the horizon.

  56.

  Samaha Bikr al-Nagi endured his life listening to the creaking of time’s wheel behind him all the time. If waiting for an hour is hard, what must it be like when life consists of nothing else? From the beginning Samaha decided not to stay in one place. He worked as a peddler, moving from village to village, let his beard and mustache grow and wore a patch over his left eye. He continued to record the passing days in his secret diary, and also noted the ages of his three sons. In his spare time he focused all his thoughts on Mahasin and the children, and as he fell asleep after a hard day’s work he would console himself with dreams of the day he would be free from the threat of the gallows and return to his family; the day he would go back to his alley brandishing his stick to put the world to rights, resurrecting the famous justice of the Nagi covenant from out of the present iniquities. Sometimes when his heart pounded with longing, he had an irresistible urge to disguise himself as a woman and visit his family, but he suppressed it at the thought of the disastrous consequences which could result and invalidate his years of patient waiting.

  He lived alone, or rather in the company of specters that never left him. Specters of injustice, tenderness, deprivation, and of the continual fear of discovery. He grew used to conducting dialogues with himself and with these specters either in silence or loud enough for the trees and the river to hear. Once he went crazy because he thought he saw Mahasin. Another time he dreamed he met Muhammad Tawakkul in the market. His best dreams were those where he saw Saint Khidr, but to his surprise all that stayed with him afterward was a heavy heart, a sadness, and some vague hope. “It’s always a good sign when he appears,” he told himself. “There’s no such thing as meaningless suffering. One day the light will break.”

  Although he’d lost everything, his strength and courage hadn’t weakened. Perhaps his perseverance had made them more pronounced, and they had helped him endure. But what had become of Mahasin and his sons? He would go back one day and find they were grown men working in the shop. They would look at him in surprise at first, but they couldn’t have forgotten him altogether.

  With each year that passed he heaved a sigh and said, “Now the rope’s a little slacker!”

  57.

  The last year was the worst of all. With every passing day the torment grew. He tried desperately to be patient, praying that he would hold out until the last minute, relentlessly fighting the pain. He occupied his mind with everyday concerns, but all the while he was taken up with the passage of time and each moment seemed like an eternity, frozen solid, and motionless.

  58.

  Only one day remained. The next morning it would all be over. Work would take his mind off it. But he was incapable of working. All he could do was follow time like a lover, his will dissolving and evaporating. Out loud, as if the sound of his voice would give him the strength to defy existence, he declared, “I’ll sleep the night here, and go home in the morning.”

  But his nerves rebelled against this scheme of his, and made a mockery of his defiance, sending their orders to his limbs, which ceased to work. No food or drink passed his lips. No dreams came to keep him company. He watched the bruised disk of the sun sink in the sky. The last drop of patience ran out.

  He would spend the night in the bosom of his family. He launched himself toward his hopes.

  59.

  Mahasin heard a faint knocking at the door.

  The children were asleep on cushions in the living room and she had done her face and was ready for bed.

  Who could be at the door? It was almost midnight. She opened it just enough to see a figure standing there. “Who is it?” she cried.

  He pushed the door wide open and pounced on her—or so it seemed to her. Before she could scream he put a hand over her mouth. They fused into a single being in the light of the lamp burning in the window. With his hand still clasped over her mouth, he raised his head and said, “It’s Samaha, Mahasin. Samaha’s come back.”

  Then he took his hand away and she stared in amazement at his hairy face.

  “You’re safe now. Samaha’s come back. The suffering’s over!”

  She went on staring at him in astonishment.

  “It’s over. The fifteen years. There are only a few hours left, but I couldn’t wait any longer.”

  At this point, Hilmi appeared in the bedroom doorway, armed with a big metal washbowl. “You’ve had it. Give yourself up.”

  The sight of him was like a heavy blow landing on Samaha’s skull. “Who’s this?” he mumbled. “A man in your room! What does this mean, Mahasin?”

  Mahasin took refuge at her husband’s side, swallowed, and said, “It’s my husband.” Then, indicating the children, whom Samaha noticed for the first time, she added, “Their father.”

  Samaha raised his left arm, then let it sink down on his head in a gesture of confusion. The ground swayed beneath his feet. “Really? Your husband? I hadn’t imagined anything like this!”

  Hilmi brandished the washbowl, saying, “Give yourself up. I’m a police detective.”

  “Really?” Samaha was seized with a sudden fit of laughter.

  “If you resist I’ll smash your head in,” roared Hilmi.

  “Let him go,” whispered Mahasin.

  “Go to the window and shout for help,” he ordered her.

  In a flash, Samaha swooped on one of the children. He hauled him to his feet with one hand and grabbed him around the neck with the other. The child began to scream. “If anybody moves or makes a sound, I’ll throttle the child.”

  “Put my son down, you criminal!” shrieked Mahasin.

  “Nobody moves or screams for help. You don’t attack a wounded snake.”

  “Put the boy down.”

  “He’ll be fine as long as nothing happens to me.”

  “Rummana, Qurra, and Wahid are being looked after by your uncle,” ventured Mahasin.

  He nodded. “That’s good, but don’t let anyone think he has a duty to hand me over to the executioner.”

  “Let him go,” Mahasin begged her husband.

  “He can go to hell,” said Hilmi, the fight gone out of him.

  “First throw down the washbowl.”

  Hilmi threw it down. Mahasin rushed to snatch the child away from Samaha. Quickly Hilmi picked up the bowl again and threw it at Samaha. His aim was poor and it barely grazed the top of Samaha’s head. Samaha seized it and flew at Hilmi and brought it down squarely on the back of his neck. Hilmi sank to the floor, unconscious.

  Samaha was out of the door in a single bound, pursued by Mahasin’s screams. When he reached the street a few people, still out and about at that hour, were hurrying in the direction of the screams for help. He made with all speed for the road leading down to the Nile. The hunt was on all over again. He leapt into a boat and began rowing away from the shore. When he was halfway across, he heard a familiar voice.

  “Give yourself up, Samaha. You’ve kil
led the detective,” shouted the Bulaq sheikh.

  60.

  “Samaha. At last!” cried Khidr al-Nagi, gazing at his nephew.

  They embraced warmly, then Khidr exclaimed, “I’ve dreamed of this day for so long. Thank God you’re safe. Let me wake Radwan.”

  But Samaha grasped his hand and murmured, “Where are the children?”

  “Wait till the morning. You should shave your beard before you see them.”

  Again Samaha whispered, “The children. I want to see them.”

  61.

  He approached them, staring at their faces as they roamed in the mysterious valleys of sleep; mouths slack, half-open, masks freed from the grip of time, youthful features betraying adolescent ardor, ripe seeds containing the germs of a future rich in contradictions.

  Affection shone from his tear-filled eyes, a rush of longing welled up in him, and his limbs trembled, making him gasp out loud. He pushed his mustache and beard away from his lips.

  Khidr whispered in his ear, “You’ll scare them.”

  But Samaha kissed their cheeks lightly and gracefully, watching out for any tiny flickers of movement, then he stood back gently, cautiously, sadly.

  62.

  “You must get some sleep,” Khidr said to him.

  “There’s no time,” he answered, shaking his head.

  “But you’re very tired, Samaha.”

  “I’ve got a lifetime of weariness ahead of me.”

  Khidr told him al-Fulali had died two years before, and al-Faskhani had taken his place; Dagla and Hamouda were dead too, and Antar and Farid in prison. Samaha listened without interest, then rested his hand on his uncle’s shoulder and said, “I’m still on the run.”

  “Isn’t the time up?” asked Khidr, suddenly agitated.

  “I was forced to kill some foolish devil an hour ago.”

  63.

  As he went on the run for the second time, Samaha paused in the square in front of the monastery. The perfumed breath of the alley filled his nostrils, but where was the feeling of intoxication? He had so often dreamed of standing here as a prelude to a new beginning: taming the villains and restoring justice. Instead it was the start of a new journey into suffering and exile. If he came back at all it would be as a weak old man.

  He went toward the path. The voices were chanting in the darkness:

  Darde mara nist darman al-ghiyath

  Hejre mara nist payan al-ghiyath.

  The fifth tale in the epic of the harafish

  1.

  The emotions of the Nagi family and the harafish were set in turmoil by the unexpected return and sudden disappearance of Samaha. His sons were probably the least affected of anybody because he came and went while they were asleep and anyway, as far as they were concerned, he was no longer much more than a faint memory, like their mother in Bulaq. His story was told far and wide, and became a legend and a cautionary tale.

  2.

  Rummana, Qurra, and Wahid worked in the grain merchant’s with their uncle Radwan and their great-uncle Khidr. A strange piece of news went around the neighborhood: Hilmi was not dead as everybody had supposed. He recovered from the blow and resumed his life as a detective, sponging off Mahasin. The folly of Samaha’s flight was exposed and people grieved for him more than ever; Khidr set out to find him. He enlisted the services of the officer in charge of the Gamaliyya police station and tried to negotiate with al-Faskhani, the clan chief, increasing the protection money he paid him and promising a large reward to anyone who found his nephew.

  His activities aroused al-Faskhani’s suspicions, and when some of his older followers reminded him of Samaha’s ambitions he grew increasingly anxious, along with many of the alley’s notables.

  Early one morning Khidr was found beaten up in the lane outside the kebab seller’s where he had sat up late the night before. Nothing could be done for him and he died two days later. Although most people agreed that the killers should be tracked down, inquiries were met with a wall of silence, as usual in such cases, and Khidr vanished from sight like a grain of sand.

  3.

  The Nagi family was shaken by the killing of its chief and considered such an ignominious end typical of the lamentable state of their fortunes. However, they submitted to their fate, acknowledging their impotence, all except for Wahid—Samaha’s youngest son—who flew into a fury which threatened disastrous consequences.

  “Our uncle’s killer’s having a good laugh at this very moment,” he exclaimed bitterly, “and his name’s al-Faskhani! Did Ashur al-Nagi imagine that his descendants would end up like this?”

  Khidr’s widow, Diya, was as upset as Wahid, but in her own way. The crime pushed her into the embrace of the unknown. She shunned the world of human beings, learned the languages of the stones and the birds, and took shelter from the knives of suffering in a cave full of spirits. She became a sorceress, interpreted dreams, read tea leaves and coffee grounds, made mysterious prophesies. She liked to wear a white dress and green veil and, swinging a brass censer, would saunter the length of the alley in silence as night fell, with wisps of perfumed smoke rising from her. A servant girl followed a short distance behind, and curious eyes stared.

  Some of the clan mocked her. “That’s safer than wanting to be clan chief,” they sneered.

  Her behavior pained the young men of the family in particular, but they could do nothing to control her. Wahid in his anger even said to her, “Stay indoors, and show some respect for your husband’s memory.”

  She looked at him stupidly. “I saw you in a dream, riding a green locust.”

  Wahid despaired of having a reasonable conversation with her.

  “Do you know what that means?” she persisted.

  He paid no attention and she answered herself, “That you were made for the open air!”

  4.

  Such was the strength of his anger that Wahid broke through the barriers of prudence. He was so bored with the grain merchant’s, felt so far away from Rummana and Qurra. The old woman said he was made for the open air. Did this mean he was fit to mount a challenge?

  He was of medium build, handsome in spite of being blind in one eye, and strong, but next to al-Faskhani he was like a kitten beside a sheep. He was not normally headstrong, but felt disturbed now by a sense of vague uneasiness and disquiet. His uncle Radwan warned him constantly to beware of his fantasies and get on with his work, while his aunt Safiyya said, “Don’t make Diya’s dreams mean what you want them to mean.”

  He went against his family and made friends with Muhammad Tawakkul, the local sheikh, in spite of their age difference, spending many a long evening with him in al-Sanadiqi’s hashish den. From time to time he took to frequenting the bar, and in the course of his visits he developed a good relationship with the owner, Sadiq Abu Taqiya. He had a young man’s predilection for drinking and fighting but never missed the Friday prayer. The sheikh of the mosque, Ismail Qalyubi, asked him one day, “Can God allow the mosque and the tavern to coexist harmoniously in a single heart?”

  “Murderers can live happily in their houses, while innocent men suffer in exile,” countered Wahid.

  5.

  After a night of excess he had a long dream: he was in the monastery square, even though he had no particular love of the place. A dervish came to him and said, “The Great Sheikh wants you to know that the world was created yesterday at dawn.”

  Wahid felt unbelievably happy. He was carried through the alley in a howdah, watched by the crowds who lined either side. He saw his mother, Mahasin from Bulaq, waving a hand in his direction and commanding the howdah to rise.

  The howdah lifted him high in the air, and the wind carried him to a stretch of open country enclosed by a red mountain.

  “Where is the man?” he found himself asking.

  A giant of a man descended from the mountainside and hailed Wahid: “Stand firm in the place of salvation.”

  “It’s you, Ashur,” Wahid declared with certainty.

 
The giant took hold of his arm and rubbed some ointment into it. “This is the magic you need,” he pronounced.

  6.

  When Wahid woke up, he felt inspired. Strength, optimism, and victory were his to command. He had no doubt that he was capable of miracles, that he could jump off the roof and come to no harm. Allowing himself to be swept along by the hurricane, he dressed and went straight to the café where al-Faskhani held court.

  “I’m offering you a challenge, you thug,” he said, staring him in the eye.

  The chief raised his heavy lids, as if he thought Wahid was mad, but he welcomed the chance of a clash with one of the Nagis’ young lions. “You’re drunk, you son of a whore,” he taunted.

  Wahid spat in his face. Al-Faskhani leapt to his feet. A crowd was gathering to watch. Wahid did not hesitate: he swooped on the chief and hit him with all his force across the back of the head. Al-Faskhani fell back, gasping for breath. Wahid snatched the chief’s club and hit him around the knees, immobilizing him, then grappled with his followers, felling them with amazing strength and speed.

  Before the day was over, Wahid was chief of the clan.

  7.

  The news took the alley by storm. The hearts of the harafish quickened with hope. The notables were beset by uneasy fears. The Nagi family dreamed of the throne of light. Wahid began to tell of his dream, the miracle which had given him his enchanted arm, his supreme confidence in his victory which had made him able to confront death with ease. He quickly became aware of the ardent hopes pinned on him by some, and the chilly dread he inspired in others, but he preferred to go slowly and carefully, and let things proceed in their accustomed way, although he gave generously to the most impoverished inhabitants of the neighborhood.