The Harafish

by Naguib Mahfouz

  66.

  Word went around that Inspector Fuad Abd al-Tawwab was behind the carefully planned operation that ended in al-Ghurab’s death, and that he had removed him, not in the interests of security but to get his hands on the chief’s enchanting new wife, Zahira.

  People’s opinion of him worsened when he intervened in an unprecedented way to prevent a new clan chief being chosen. For the first time in its long history, the alley had no chief to control its day-to-day life, and the people felt more humiliated than they had ever done before.

  The curious among them wondered when the inspector would come out from behind his mask and propose to Zahira.

  67.

  Sheikh Gibril asked to see her. She guessed why at once. She appeared lukewarm in the face of the inspector’s approaches, for she was richer now than him and his whole police station. Aziz Samaha al-Nagi was a precious pearl, worthy to crown her dreams. His only fault was that he had inherited his ancestor’s sense of honor without his strength and daring. Ashur al-Nagi had married the woman his sons were fighting over, but Aziz kept his love a secret, withdrew into himself, avoided doing wrong, and grew steadily older. Perhaps she could entice him and possess him, but what would be the use when there was a stubborn, wicked man in the offing who would have no scruples about dealing with Aziz just as he had dealt with Nuh?

  O radiant hope, mad breeze beyond the clouds!

  68.

  “Remember, I won’t be a co-wife,” she repeated to Gibril al-Fas.

  “As everyone knows, the inspector’s wife is old enough to be his mother, but she’s rich. Will you fill the gap?”

  “Why do I have to?”

  “It’s one of the calamities of the age,” said the sheikh apologetically.

  She concealed her anger. Her imagination worked frenetically and her resolve hardened.

  “Let him wait till the mourning period is over, then I’ll marry him,” she said, pretending to give in.

  The sheikh beamed. “Thank God,” he murmured.

  69.

  She set to work immediately, bursting into Aziz’s office like a breeze, drunk on dew and perfume. Her appearance was elegant, yet sad, and she looked at him beseechingly, captivatingly. She noticed his flushed cheeks, his unsteady eyes, his agitation, and said softly, pleadingly, “What choice did I have? I’ve no one but you to turn to when I’m in trouble.”

  Everything but his tongue was confessing his love.

  “Welcome, Zahira.”

  Delighted by his good manners, she asked, “What shall I do? Hand myself over to The Killer?”

  “Has he asked for your hand?” asked Aziz in horror.

  “With no inhibitions.”

  He frowned.

  “What a way to end up for a poor woman who’s never ever had the freedom to choose her partner in life,” she said.

  “Don’t agree to something you’d hate,” he said with obvious emotion.

  “To tell you the truth, I’m frightened of him.”

  “You mustn’t be,” he said fiercely.

  “Everyone knows he’s bad. He was the one who killed Nuh al-Ghurab.”

  “One criminal killing another!”

  “Yes,” she agreed placidly. “If the Interior Ministry questioned the Atuf clan, they’d get at the truth.”

  She paused and looked into his face, then went on, “It needs somebody who commands respect, who’ll be listened to by the Interior Ministry.”

  The summer clouds passed to reveal the sun’s face.

  70.

  Inspector Fuad Abd al-Tawwab was ordered abruptly back to Upper Egypt. The sky cleared, storms no longer threatened, and summer came to stay, bedecked with melons and grapes. Samaka al-Allaj became clan chief. Zahira, drunk with pride, was convinced she was the real chief, the instigator of events.

  “I am intelligence, will, beauty, achievement,” she told herself.

  Then, looking fondly at Galal and Radi, she whispered, “May you be more glorious than them all!”

  71.

  She visited Aziz without delay to thank him for what he had done.

  “If only there were more men like you,” she declared, clearly relieved.

  The man smiled, enraptured. “I’m glad to see you happy,” he murmured.

  “I’ve been saved from the plague, like our ancestor,” she remarked playfully. Then she added sadly, “I don’t know about happy…”

  He looked at her curiously, and she went on, “What is this happiness we think we deserve?”

  “Perhaps we know it instinctively.”

  “How could a woman in my position ever be described as happy?”

  “You have everything you want,” he said, hiding his confusion.

  She rose to her feet gracefully, and looked steadily at him until his resolve almost collapsed. “I’m lacking the most important thing in human life,” she said as she went away.

  72.

  Aziz submitted to his fate, acknowledging his weakness with extraordinary strength, like the old wall or the monastery gate, or like his ancestor one evening in the bar. What curious madness can strike a man in middle age! He stole a glance at his mother, Aziza.

  “Mother,” he murmured finally.

  She sensed an alien quality in the atmosphere. “Say what’s on your mind.”

  “It’s God’s will that I should marry again,” he said, trying to sound calm.

  Aziza was amazed. She stared at him. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Zahira,” he replied after a moment’s hesitation.

  “No!” protested Aziza.

  “It’s the truth.”

  “The snake!”

  “Mother, don’t judge her too hastily,” he implored.

  “The snake!”

  “You always loved her, mother.”

  “So did Ulfat. But she turned out to be poisonous.”

  “She’s had a hard time.”

  “Another Raifa,” murmured Aziza with a sad smile.

  “Don’t go by appearances.”

  “You’re so sensible. How did she manage to charm you?”

  “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

  His mother sighed. “And what about Ulfat, your proper wife?” she asked.

  “She’ll continue to be the lady of the house and the children’s mother,” he said firmly.

  “Tell me, do you still respect your mother?”

  “Absolutely, mother.”

  “Then give up this idea.”

  “I can’t.”

  “She’s bewitched you, son.”

  “You should be happy because I’m happy.”

  “Have you forgotten what happened to Abd Rabbihi or Muhammad Anwar or Nuh al-Ghurab?”

  “They all oppressed her,” he said irritably.

  “She’s the oppressor. You’re storing up trouble for yourself.”

  “It’s good intentions that count,” he murmured in a conciliatory tone.

  “That low-class creature,” sniffed Aziza spitefully.

  “We’re from the same line, mother,” protested Aziz.

  “You can be proud of what’s good in your line, but not the violence. What about Rummana who killed your father? Or Wahid?”

  “What must be…,” he said tranquilly.

  73.

  Zahira married Aziz al-Nagi. Madame Aziza boycotted the celebrations, did not acknowledge the marriage, and lived in her apartments with Ulfat and the children, in a permanent sulk. Aziz bought Nuh al-Ghurab’s house for Zahira, changed the furniture, carpets, and ornaments, and turned it into a glorious love nest. He respected all Ulfat’s rights, heaping care and affection on her and the children. But only now, in late middle age, had he found true love.

  74.

  Zahira enjoyed an exquisite, unreal feeling like a glow of inspiration: it was the majesty of achievement, the splendor of a dream fulfilled. A big house, wealth, prestige, a leading notable for a husband. She did not mind about Aziza’s
anger or Ulfat’s sadness, and if there were people who looked down on her, she could be more arrogant than anyone and with more justification, thanks to her God-given beauty and intelligence. She believed she was the clan chief in a woman’s skin and that the blessed life was only for the strong. For the first time she found herself with a husband she respected, admired, and did not want to leave. She still suppressed all feelings of love in the interests of something greater and more glorious. “I’m not weak like other women,” she would remind herself frequently.

  She took full advantage of her status: a little before sunset she would sit Galal and Radi in front of her in the carriage, and drive down the street at a leisurely pace, the silver bells ringing gaily, proud as a queen, her eyes flashing behind her light silk veil. People would stare at her in a mixture of admiration, envy, and astonishment. She savored the beauty of each moment with all her being, inspired by a heavenly draft which swept her along on wings of delight, transforming the world into a diamond whose many facets reflected back at her an image of her irresistible beauty.

  She would drive to al-Husayn, rejoice as the beggars crowded around her, and grandly distribute alms and gifts.

  75.

  She gave Aziz a son, Shams al-Din, and the world looked even more beautiful. As she blossomed and her beauty shone brighter than ever, Aziz declined into a premature old age. To her own family she was generous beyond all expectations, and her mother and sisters lived a life of ease. One question troubled her constantly: what did she have to do to make her story unique, different from that of any woman before her?

  76.

  One day she left the mosque as usual in a crowd of beggars and madmen. She sat Galal and Radi on their seats and was about to climb aboard when a voice at her elbow whispered, “Zahira.”

  She turned and saw Muhammad Anwar looking at her with a face of death. In a panic, she tried to haul herself into the carriage, but the man raised his heavy stick and brought it down with all his force on her noble, beautiful head. She collapsed on the ground, crying out in pain. He hit her savagely, indifferent to the children’s screams, until her head was smashed to a pulp.

  All that remained of that magnificent, brilliant face was a web of shattered bones submerged in a pool of blood.

  The seventh tale in the epic of the harafish

  1.

  Zahira’s death dealt Aziz a cruel blow, for which there was no cure. At her funeral he appeared bereft of all hope, a ghost banished from the body of life. His pain was only equaled by his public self-control. The world was a vicious, cunning old woman with endless cruel tricks up her sleeve, and he began to mistrust and loathe all her beguiling promises.

  His mother came to visit him. He received her unenthusiastically, hiding his resentment. She wept and clasped him to her breast.

  “We mustn’t quarrel. We should face the blows of fate together,” she whispered in his ear. Then she kissed his forehead and continued with a sigh, “It’s as if I was only created for sorrow and grief.”

  Her words of comfort glided over his heart, leaving no trace.

  2.

  A few months after Zahira’s death Aziz became ill and was left half-paralyzed. He died a few weeks later. Aziza was devastated. It had never occurred to her that she would bury her illustrious son and live on after him. Her sadness returned, even worse than it had been when she lost Qurra. It was as if she was some awesome creature whose true glory was revealed only in the vast expanses of a great sorrow. The beautiful, respected Aziza who had stubbornly insisted on carving out her own path in life had, it seemed, sowed patience only to harvest pain.

  In accordance with Aziz’ wishes, she took Radi and Shams al-Din into her house. Although she looked after Shams al-Din as well as she could, he died when he was eight months old, and then Abd Rabbihi took Galal.

  3.

  The alley was shaken by Zahira’s death, by the struggle of luck against fate. They went over the events tirelessly, trying to learn from them. Why do people laugh, dance in triumph, feel recklessly secure in positions of power? Why do they not remember their true place in the scheme of things, and their inevitable end? The inhabitants of the alley felt some sorrow, but this was quickly submerged in a flood of anger and resentment. They cursed volubly and declared that the oppressors had got their just deserts. No one respected the noble Aziz’ grief: he was accused of snatching Zahira away from Abd Rabbihi. At his death he was not lamented as he deserved to be. The harafish said that the Nagi family had become like actors in a tragedy—a warning and deterrent to others—as a punishment for their betrayal of their mighty ancestor, the blessed miracle worker.

  All at once the late spring weather changed. The sky clouded over and a strange rain fell, followed by a wave of bitter cold. People were disconcerted. Their hearts stirred fearfully. “May this be a good omen, Lord!” they murmured uncertainly.

  4.

  No child seemed marked out for trials and sufferings like Galal, the son of Zahira and Abd Rabbihi. The sight of his beautiful mother’s shattered head was imprinted deep in his soul, a permanent nightmare, tormenting his waking hours and troubling his dreams. How could such cruelty exist, such magnificent beauty meet such a horrific end? Why was his mother silent, gone forever? What had he done to be robbed of her beauty and affection, the splendor of the life which sprang from her? Why couldn’t time go backward? Why did people lose what they loved and have to endure things they hated? Why were events governed by such harsh laws? Why had he been moved from luxury to Abd Rabbihi’s squalid dwelling? Who was Abd Rabbihi anyway? Why was he supposed to call him father? His mother was his only parent: she’d given birth to him and raised him, and he didn’t love anyone else. She was his soul and his lifeblood. Her image was stamped on his face, her voice sang in his ears, and the hope of getting her back one day lived in his heart.

  The shattered bones drowning in a pool of blood would never be forgotten.

  5.

  Abd Rabbihi’s world had also changed. Thanks to Galal’s inherited wealth, he was able to move from the basement room to a respectable flat. He bought the baker’s oven from its owner in his son’s name and began running the business himself, incompetently, due to his addiction to alcohol. He took to wearing a white gallabiyya and a brightly colored cloak, with a brocade headcloth, and for the first time in his life his rough feet were hidden from view in red slippers with turned-up toes.

  “You might as well benefit from Zahira’s status now,” he told himself with a shudder, half morbid, half defiant.

  Nobody was prepared to speak out and accuse him of wasting Galal’s money and despite the wine and the grief he was attached to the little boy. He gazed dumbfounded at Zahira’s beauty emblazoned on his features, reminding him simultaneously of his happiest and most wretched times. He spared no effort to be friendly to him, reassure him, and win his affection. Such a handsome, prickly little boy!

  6.

  Galal woke up crying one morning a little before dawn and the sound roused his drunken father. Anxiously he stroked the boy’s smooth black hair. “Did you have a bad dream?” he asked.

  “When’s my mother coming back?” sobbed the boy.

  He felt a sharp burst of annoyance despite his befuddled state. “After a long, long time you’ll go and join her,” he answered curtly, “but I shouldn’t be in too much of a hurry.”

  7.

  Zahira’s story came up one evening in the bar.

  “That’s the first time a woman’s been the cause of a clan chief’s death,” observed Samaka al-Allaj, the new chief.

  “She paid for it,” said Abd Rabbihi, trying to sound manly.

  “Don’t pretend you’re cured of your love,” said Gibril al-Fas.

  “I’m just afraid her murder will atone for the evil she did, and she’ll go to heaven,” retorted Abd Rabbihi aggressively.

  “You want her to go to hell, so you can be sure of meeting her again,” teased the bar owner, Sanqar al-Shammam.

  Abd Rabbi
hi groaned, abandoning his front. “It’s such a pity! Is all that beauty really feeding the worms?”

  He paused, then said gruffly, “She practically worshiped me. But she was off her head!”

  He began to sing in a voice like a donkey braying.

  Hey you with the fancy cap

  Tell me who made it

  My heart’s ensnared

  May yours be too.

  8.

  Galal went to the Quran school, a pleasant, intelligent boy, extremely lively and strongly built. One day he was taught the verse, “Every soul will taste death.”

  “Why do people die?” he asked.

  “It’s the will of God, Creator of all things,” answered the sheikh.

  “But why?” persisted Galal.

  The sheikh grew angry. He tied him down by his feet and flogged him. The boy shouted and cried. His rage stayed with him all day long. None of this would have happened if his mother had still been alive and the world aglow with her presence.

  9.

  In school and out in the alley Galal was the victim of vicious attacks. The boys insulted him. “Zahira’s son!” they would jeer. Always that name. Is it a swear word, you bastards? They pelted him with fragments of her life history which he had never heard: cheat, two-timer, husband collector, tyrant, servant, social climber.

  He rushed off to his father. “Why do they insult my mother?” he demanded.

  “She was an angel,” he said, gently consoling. “If you don’t react, they’ll soon stop.”

  A vengeful frown transformed his handsome face. “Don’t react?” he protested.

  His father gave him an uneasy look.

  10.

  His mother’s story filtered through to him, a word here and a word there. He refused to believe what he heard. On the occasions when he was forced to believe, he refused to see anything shameful in his mother’s actions. She would always be an angel, whatever she did. What was wrong with someone reaching for the skies? But such logic had no effect on the hooligans in the alley.