The Harafish

by Naguib Mahfouz

  24.

  Why had Fayiz al-Nagi killed himself? The question weighed on them, plagued their confused, sorrowing minds. The authorities—so Yunis al-Sayis claimed—were taking the inquiry very seriously. But how had they themselves not known what was happening until the last moment? How had they been so completely blind? He had been absent for long periods, kept most of the details of his work a secret, but his infrequent visits home had filled the house with joy and delight and hope for the future. Until his last visit, when he’d been a different person. What had changed him? How had death become his only way out?

  “We’re cursed,” wailed Halima.

  “Why did he do it? I’m going mad,” groaned Diya.

  “If we do find out why, it won’t be pleasant,” said Ashur. “People don’t kill themselves for no reason.”

  25.

  The two brothers decided to search the deceased’s house to try to find the key to his secrets, his business dealings, his sources of finance. The authorities agreed to escort them there. It was an enormous house with extensive land abutting the hills. They were struck by the large number of luxurious apartments, the stocks of drink and drugs, the profusion of furniture and ornaments, but when they forced open the safes and strongboxes they found them completely empty. No documents, letters, ledgers, or cash. The two brothers exchanged bewildered glances.

  “What does it mean?” asked Ashur.

  “Where’s all his wealth?” asked Diya.

  Ashur turned to one of the detectives. “Do you know something we don’t?” he asked him.

  “We’ll leave no stone unturned,” said the man.

  26.

  Diya and Ashur returned from their failed journey of discovery utterly confused. The riddle was more obscure and murkier than ever and they were beset by apprehensions. Fayiz had left them secure before he died: they and their mother had inherited the coal yard and two wonderful houses. But what about his own wealth and his mysterious life?

  “Perhaps he went bankrupt,” said Diya thoughtfully.

  “Why kill himself, when he still had the coal business and two mansions?” objected Ashur.

  Diya shook his head uncomprehendingly. “Why do people kill themselves at all?”

  27.

  Fayiz’ suicide dominated the interest of the drinkers in the bar.

  “Why would a man like that kill himself?” said Zayn al-Alabaya.

  “It wasn’t because he went bust,” said Sheikh Yunis. “What he left would have made him one of the richest men in the alley.”

  “You must have some more information, being a lawman yourself,” goaded Zayn.

  Not wanting to announce his lack of information, Yunis said guardedly, “They’re following up all his contacts.”

  “There’s a much more telling reason than insolvency,” said Hassuna al-Saba sarcastically.

  All heads turned respectfully toward him.

  “Madness!” he guffawed. “It’s in their blood. Even their revered ancestor was a foundling and a thief.”

  28.

  The Nagi family’s life dragged by miserably. Naturally, the weddings were postponed. Diya and Ashur carried on with their daily routine, but the spark of joy and creativity had been extinguished in their souls. Halima was practically a recluse and stayed in her apartments, mulling over her sorrows and taking comfort in prayer.

  29.

  One evening, when winter winds were lashing the alley, Sheikh Yunis arrived at the house with the police inspector and a pack of detectives.

  “Who owns the coal business and the two houses?” asked the inspector.

  “They belonged to our dead brother. We inherited them.”

  “Show me the title deeds.”

  Diya went away and came back with a medium-sized silver box, and the inspector began examining the documents. He looked from Halima to her two sons. “It all belongs to somebody else,” he announced.

  Nobody took in what he said. Not a trace of emotion crossed their faces.

  “All the trade and real estate in your hands belongs to someone else. It never belonged to Fayiz. Therefore you have no rights to it.”

  “What are you talking about?” shouted Diya.

  “You must give up this house and the coal yard immediately.”

  “There must be some mistake.”

  “Fayiz had sold everything. The new owner’s come forward with the contract and it’s all in order.”

  “Are you telling us the truth?” asked Ashur in disbelief.

  The inspector was gentle but firm. “We wouldn’t come here at this time of night for fun.”

  “It’s impossible to take in.”

  “You’d better start trying!”

  “So where’s the money from the sale?” demanded Diya.

  “Only God and the dead man know that.” He was silent for a few moments, then went on, “Perhaps it was a fictitious sale. Maybe it was lost in some crazy wager. The investigation will no doubt uncover more dirt!”

  “It’s impossible to take in,” repeated Diya.

  “It’s quite simple. He was robbed,” said Ashur.

  “Then why did he kill himself instead of reporting it?”

  “There must be some crime involved, inspector.”

  “A whole string of crimes! The inquiry’s still in its early stages!”

  30.

  The family waited helplessly, the death sentence hanging over them. The inspector repeated, “A whole string of crimes. Bad crimes,” then added, “You’ll have to come with us.”

  “Where to?” asked Halima in a quaking voice.

  “The station.”

  “They need you to help with the inquiry,” put in Sheikh Yunis kindly.

  “Are you charging us?” Ashur asked the inspector.

  “Let’s wait and see,” he replied firmly.

  31.

  The inquiry was long and exhausting. They were held in the police station for a week while it was going on but eventually it was established that they had no links with the mysterious work Fayiz did when he was away from them and they were released. They returned to the alley, disgraced, homeless.

  32.

  The facts had preceded them like a rotten smell. Everyone, young and old, friend and foe, knew that Fayiz had begun his escapade by selling the stolen cart, then invested his money in whores, gambling, drugs, and the trappings of debauched luxury. He gambled with money he didn’t have and when he lost he would entice his creditor to his house in the foothills with promises of women and drugs, kill him, take his money, and bury him in the grounds. On the last occasion he lost all his liquid assets and was forced to gamble with his real estate in the form of a fictitious bill of sale, and lost that too. This time he had failed to kill his creditor and the man had escaped with his money still on him. Ruined, and threatened with exposure, Fayiz had killed himself. The police had received an anonymous letter—perhaps from a one-time associate—which had led them eventually to his victims’ graves. So the appalling secret of his success and final downfall was uncovered.

  33.

  They returned to the alley, disgraced, homeless.

  Their story was a gem for the spiteful, a nightmare for the morbidly fanciful and neurotic. Al-Saba, al-Alabaya, and al-Agal added fuel to the flames. Such was the strength of the hatred directed at them that they were spat upon and punched in the street. They fled down the archway and along the path by the old city wall, and ended up in the cemetery.

  Sheikh Galil, imam of the mosque, tried to intercede for them. “Don’t punish them for something they didn’t do.”

  “Shut up,” roared Hassuna al-Saba, “or I’ll strangle you with your own turban!”

  The Khashshabs and the Attars were among the first to wash their hands of them.

  34.

  The fugitives took up residence in the mourners’ chamber of Shams al-Din’s tomb. They only had a few piastres to their name, and their immediate troubles made the sorrows of death and bankruptcy recede into the backgr
ound. Dry-eyed, even Halima, they huddled close to one another, taking comfort from the closeness of their bodies, warmed by their collective heartbeat, as the winter wind growled around the tombstones.

  “Bastards!” raged Diya.

  “We must think what to do,” urged Halima.

  “Our only choice is to become gravediggers,” scoffed Diya bitterly.

  “The dead are nicer to live with,” said his mother.

  “Have we really been forced out of the alley?” demanded Ashur in disbelief.

  “Why not go back and wash your face in their spit again!” said his brother.

  “We’ll survive anyhow,” said Ashur defiantly.

  “We could try begging again!”

  Outside the winter wind growled around the tombstones.

  35.

  The next day their misery entered a new stage, distinguished mainly by inertia.

  “We’ve no time to lose,” said Halima.

  Diya remarked that they had no time, no money, no friends, no nothing.

  Ignoring him, she went on, “Where ought we to go?”

  “The world’s our oyster!” answered Diya.

  “Let’s stay here, close to the alley, until we can go back,” said Ashur.

  “Go back?” repeated Diya scathingly.

  “Why not? One day we’re sure to. And there’s nothing for us anywhere else.”

  “Let’s stay here for a little while at least,” said Halima peaceably.

  “I didn’t sleep a wink last night,” said Diya. “I thought so much, the dead must have heard my brain humming. I’ve made up my mind.”

  “To do what?”

  “Not to stay here.”

  His mother ignored him, and said, “I’ll go back to work, and make sure I keep well away from the alley.”

  “I’ll sell fruit in the street,” said Ashur.

  Annoyed at the way they took no notice of him, Diya repeated loudly, “I’m going, even if it means leaving you here.”

  “Going where? And what will you do?” asked his mother.

  “I don’t know,” he said, still angry. “I’ll take my chance.”

  “Like Fayiz did,” she said sadly.

  “Certainly not! There are other ways.”

  “For example?”

  “I’m not a prophet!”

  “Stay with us,” said Ashur gently. “We need each other more than ever now.”

  “No. It’s too late.”

  36.

  Diya said goodbye to his mother and brother and left. Halima’s eyes were filled with tears but there was no room for sorrow. She and Ashur led a cruel, harsh life. She peddled her sweets and pickles like a beggar woman, and Ashur sold fruit and vegetables from a little basket on his giant shoulders. It was as if they had some unspoken agreement to endure the present and avoid complaining or digging up the past. But for all that the past remained deeply rooted within the two of them: memories of their beautiful house, the opulence, the splendid carriage, the manager’s office, generously cut coats, garnet prayer beads, the scents of musk and amber, good conversation. Aziza al-Attar with her yashmak and happy smile. The flattery of Yunis al-Sayis and his customary morning greeting: “God give you a happy day, you whose face shines with light!” Ah, Fayiz! What did you do to yourself, and to us? Even Galal the madman didn’t murder people and hide the corpses. What’s this curse that hounds the descendants of the saintly miracle worker?

  Ashur never tired of spending his rest time in the open air where he used to graze the goats. Where blessed Ashur, giver of the covenant, had sought refuge. The ancestor he loved, whose word he trusted, whose good deeds and strength he venerated. Wasn’t he supposed to resemble him? But where had it got him? His ancestor had performed miracles, while he sold cucumbers and dates on the street!

  At night he still went to the monastery square, wrapped in darkness, guided by the stars. His gaze wandered over the dim shapes of the mulberry trees and the dark mass of the ancient wall. He sat down in al-Nagi’s old spot and listened to the dancing rhythms. Didn’t these men of God care about what happened to God’s creatures? When would they open the gate or knock down the walls? He wanted to ask them why Fayiz had committed his crimes. How much longer the alley would be poor and oppressed. Why egotists and criminals prospered, while the good and loving came to nothing. Why the harafish were in a deep sleep.

  Meanwhile the air was filled with their chanting.

  Did keh bar joz jur o setam nadasht

  Beshkast ahd o zoghame ma hich gham nadasht.

  37.

  Halima said to herself that he always seemed distracted, absentminded. She wondered what he was thinking about. Was it possible to have a life of hard toil with no pleasant breeze to soothe it? “What’s bothering you, Ashur?” she asked him tenderly.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Wouldn’t it be a good idea if we found you a wife to stop you being lonely?”

  “We can barely feed ourselves,” he smiled.

  “But is there something wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he answered sincerely.

  She had to believe him, but she wasn’t convinced. There was a whole secret life inside him, and it made her jealous and afraid.

  38.

  One night his secrets were weighing him down. It was spring and he had taken to sitting in the open courtyard of the tomb. The sky arched above, brilliant with a myriad of stars. He and Halima were eating a supper of curd cheese and cucumbers.

  “I sometimes wonder what Diya’s doing,” said Ashur.

  “He’ll have forgotten about us,” sighed Halima.

  Ashur lapsed into silence and the only sounds were the smacking of his lips as he ate and the barking of dogs around the cemetery.

  “I’m afraid he’ll do what Fayiz did,” he went on.

  “But he gave us an example we’re not likely to forget.”

  “People always do forget.”

  “Is that what’s troubling you?”

  He bowed his head in the pale light of the crescent moon.

  “Why did Fayiz turn to a life of crime?” he demanded. “Why did Galal go mad? Why does the clan chief hunt us down?”

  “Don’t we have enough to worry about?”

  “It’s a never-ending chain of worries!”

  “It’s the devil, God protect us.”

  “Of course. But why doesn’t he have any trouble tempting us?”

  “He has no success with believers.”

  He fell silent again. He had finished eating and began to smoke a pipe of tobacco steeped in molasses. The dogs barked more insistently, some of them almost howling.

  “Do you want to know what I think, mother?” he said suddenly. “The devil conquers us by knowing our weak spots.”

  “God protect us.”

  “Our love of money and power are our two greatest weaknesses.”

  “Perhaps they’re the same thing,” murmured Halima.

  “Perhaps. The power of money.”

  “Even your ancestor succumbed to it.”

  “My ancestor!”

  She stared at him.

  “What was wrong with him?” he asked.

  “Wrong with him?”

  “I mean why did he succumb?”

  “It wasn’t his fault.”

  “Of course not,” he murmured hastily.

  But privately he continued to wonder what Ashur had lacked, and what had thwarted the development of his ideals after his death, or after Shams al-Din’s death. If wrong existed, right must exist too. It must be constantly renewable, and if it was possible to suffer lapses, it must also be possible to ensure that they didn’t recur.

  “Don’t you have more than enough to worry about?” asked Halima again.

  39.

  No. He didn’t. He was dissatisfied, as might be expected of somebody who was addicted to spending an hour in the open country every day and an hour or more in the monastery square! In whose heart a torch blazed constantly. Somebody who was kept awake b
y kaleidoscopic dreams, who continued to think that Ashur al-Nagi was his only ancestor. In the sandy ground of the country he outlined a way. By the light of the stars in the monastery square he imagined it. In his wanderings and in his sleep, he secretly confided in it. Until it existed for him, as strong, solid, and impressive as the ancient wall.

  40.

  He hung around for hours in the Darasa market. It was here that many of the harafish from the alley loitered, which was why he had previously avoided it and now frequented it. He passed in front of their little groups, singing his wares. Some of them recognized him at once.

  “It’s Ashur!”

  “The killer’s brother selling cucumbers!” a voice mocked.

  Ashur went toward them with a cheerful expression on his generous features. He held out his hand, saying, “Are you going to refuse to shake it like the others?”

  They crowded around to shake it warmly.

  “To hell with them,” said one.

  “You’ve always been good to us,” said another.

  “How’s your mother? She’s a fine woman.”

  “Seeing you, my wandering spirit has come back home,” murmured Ashur.

  He spent an hour in their company, a happy hour of affectionate, joyous conversation. From that time on he went regularly to the Darasa market.

  41.

  Meeting the harafish had set his whole being on fire. His vital energies raced together and his heart pounded as if it would burst its walls. He couldn’t sleep, he was so agitated by this upsurge of power inside him. He defied the unknown like Fayiz and Diya; but he took a different path, his sights set on more distant horizons. He stared it in the face, grasped it by the hand, rushed toward it unreservedly. As if he was bound by destiny to gamble and take risks, to pursue the impossible. He was harboring an amazing secret. In his sleep he had seen someone he believed was Ashur al-Nagi. Although the figure was smiling, it had asked him in a tone of obvious reproach, “Is it going to be me or you?”

  It repeated the question twice.

  “Me!” answered Ashur, as if he had suddenly realized what the words meant.

  Still smiling, al-Nagi vanished.

  When he woke up, Ashur wondered what al-Nagi had meant by this question, and what he had meant by his answer. He could find no clear explanation, but he was filled with inspiration and fearless optimism.