42.
One day he questioned the harafish in the market. “What could restore our alley’s fortunes?”
“The return of Ashur al-Nagi,” answered several voices.
“Can the dead come back to life?” he murmured, smiling.
“Of course,” someone replied with a laugh.
“When you’re alive you’re alive, and when you’re dead you’re dead,” he said firmly.
“We’re alive but not living.”
“What haven’t you got?”
“Bread.”
“Power, you mean,” said Ashur.
“Bread’s easier to come by.”
“Not at all!”
“You’re strong and powerfully built,” said a voice. “Do you want to become clan chief?”
“And be transformed like Wahid, Galal, and Samaha!” said another.
“Or be assassinated like Fath al-Bab!” said a third.
“Even if I became an honest, upright chief, what good would it do?”
“We’d live happily under your protection!” said one.
“You wouldn’t be honest for long!” said another.
“Even if you were happy when I was there what about after I’d gone?” asked Ashur.
“It would be back to the bad old days.”
“We don’t trust anyone. Not even you!”
“Wise words,” smiled Ashur.
They burst out laughing.
“But you have faith in yourselves!” went on Ashur.
“A lot of good that does us!”
“Can you keep a secret?” asked Ashur seriously.
“Just for you!”
“I had a strange dream. I saw you armed with clubs.”
They broke into gales of unrestrained laughter.
“He’s definitely crazy,” said one of them, indicating Ashur. “That’s why I like him.”
43.
Somebody knocked on the door of the tomb room. Ashur and his mother were sitting together after supper, wrapped up in blankets to protect them from the biting winter cold. Ashur opened the door and saw a face he knew in the lamplight. “Diya! My brother!” he cried.
Halima jumped up and clasped him to her breast. A few moments were lost in warm embraces and greetings, then they came to themselves and sat down on cushions, looking at one another. Diya was in a dark cloak, green leather slippers with turned-up toes, and a striped silk headcloth, looking the picture of health and happiness. Ashur’s heart twitched apprehensively, and Halima shut out her suspicions with a smile and let her affections submerge them. Diya broke the brief silence. “What a long time it’s been!” He laughed. “And yet not long!”
“You forgot all about us, Diya,” murmured Halima, her eyes brimming with tears.
“Life was harder than I could ever have imagined,” complained Diya in a tone which managed to convey his inner triumph.
It was time to talk of the present but Halima and Ashur recoiled from broaching the subject. Diya’s appearance reminded them of someone else whose image they could not erase from their minds, and they were gripped by a secret anguish. Diya knew just what they were thinking. “At last the Almighty has taken us by the hand!” he said.
“Thank God,” muttered Halima, for the sake of saying something.
She looked at him inquiringly.
“I’m manager of the biggest hotel in Bulaq.” He turned to Ashur. “What do you think of that?” he inquired cheerfully.
“Wonderful,” said Ashur in a lifeless tone.
“I know what’s going on in your head.”
“Can’t you see why I’m worried?”
“But it happened in a very ordinary way. Completely different from our brother’s fiasco.”
“I hope so.”
“I worked in the hotel as a servant, then I became a clerk because I knew how to read and write, then I got friendly with the owner’s daughter.” He paused to give his words a chance to sink in, then continued. “I was afraid to ask her father for her hand, in case I lost everything. But he died. We married and I became manager of the hotel, and its virtual owner.”
“God grant you make a success of it,” murmured his mother.
He looked at Ashur. “Are you afraid I’m not telling the truth?”
“Oh, no,” said Ashur quickly.
“You can’t get the disaster of Fayiz out of your mind.”
“I’ll never be able to.”
“But I’ve taken a different course.”
“Thank God.”
“Do you believe me?”
“Yes.”
“As soon as I’d made my way in the world, I remembered my mother and brother,” said Diya proudly.
“God bless you,” said Halima.
“Because I never abandoned an old dream of mine.”
“An old dream?” queried Ashur.
“That we should go back to our alley, recover our old status, and be greeted respectfully by those who once spat in our faces.”
“Forget it,” said Ashur tersely.
“Really? What are you scared of? Money works miracles.”
“People stopped having real respect for us while we were still wealthy.”
“What do you mean—real respect?”
Should he divulge his own dream? But he couldn’t trust him. He might be able to communicate with the harafish, but not with this frivolous snob. “The respect we lost a long time ago.”
Diya shrugged dismissively. “In any case, it’s time you two gave up living with the dead!”
“No,” said Ashur resolutely.
“No! Are you refusing my offer of help?”
“Yes.”
“That’s nothing short of crazy.”
“It’s your wife’s money. Nothing to do with us.”
“You’re hurting me.”
“I’m sorry, Diya. Leave us be.”
“You’re still suspicious of me.”
“No. I think I’ve made that clear.”
“I’m not letting my mother stay here,” he said, his irritation plain to see.
“You’re a good boy, but I won’t abandon your brother,” said Halima quickly.
“You’re suspicious of me too!”
“God forbid! But I’m not leaving him. Let things take their course.”
“How long do you plan to stay here with the dead?”
“We’re not exactly as poor as we were. Things get better each day.”
“I can reinstate you in the alley as respected citizens,” he said vehemently.
“Let things take their course,” implored Halima.
Diya hung his head. “What a disappointment,” he muttered.
44.
After Diya had gone, Halima said, “We were hard on him, Ashur.”
“There was no other way,” insisted Ashur.
“Don’t you trust him?”
“No.”
“I do.”
“I’m certain he must have bent the rules a bit to get where he is.”
“Who could fail to learn a lesson after what happened to Fayiz?”
“We could. Our family history’s nothing more than a succession of deviations, disasters, lessons not learned.”
“But I believe him.”
“As you wish.”
“And you wouldn’t even tell him your secret?”
“No,” said Ashur sadly. “We believe in different things.”
“He might have joined your group.”
“We believe in different things,” repeated Ashur patiently.
Diya had certainly come at an inopportune moment, for Ashur was poised—after much hard work—to take the decisive step.
45.
One wondrous day as the alley suffered its normal miserable life and winter prepared to depart, a man stepped out from under the archway. A giant in a blue gallabiyya and brown skullcap, carrying a long stick. He moved calmly and confidently as if he was returning from an hour’s trip rather than several years’ absence. The first pers
on he met was Muhammad al-Agal. He stared at him in amazement.
“Ashur!”
“God’s peace upon you, Muhammad.”
At once astonished eyes were fixed on him. From shops, house windows, from all around the alley. He took no notice of anyone and made straight for the café. Hassuna al-Saba was cross-legged on his couch, attended by Yunis al-Sayis and Galil al-Alim. Ashur entered under the shocked gaze of the clientele. He made for a corner table, uttering a general greeting.
No one answered. It was clear the chief expected a formal salutation accompanied by some conciliatory remarks but Ashur sat down without a glance in his direction. The customers waited to see what would happen next.
“What brings you back here, boy?” demanded al-Saba, losing patience.
“I was bound to come here one day,” he answered calmly.
“But you were chased out, rejected, cursed,” he shouted.
“That was an injustice,” he retorted, “and justice must triumph in the end.”
Sheikh Galil interrupted at this point.
“Approach and ask our chief’s pardon,” he said.
“I didn’t come here to seek pardon,” answered Ashur coldly.
“We didn’t know you were rude and conceited,” shouted Yunis.
“You said it,” mocked Ashur.
Hassuna al-Saba unfolded his legs from under him and sat forward, feet planted firmly on the floor.
“How were you thinking of coming back to live here, if it wasn’t with my indulgence?” he asked menacingly.
“By the grace of the Almighty,” proclaimed Ashur unruffled.
“Get out of here, or you’ll be leaving on a stretcher,” roared al-Saba.
Ashur stood up, and his fingers tightened around his club. The waiter rushed outside to summon the clan. The customers rushed after him in fright. Hassuna and Ashur lashed at one another with their long sticks. The shock of contact was like a wall coming down. A cruel, merciless battle broke out.
The men of the clan appeared from different directions, the alley emptied of people, shops closed, and the windows and wooden lattices filled with curious heads.
And then there was a surprise which hit the alley like an earthquake. Nobody was prepared for it. The harafish poured out of the lanes and derelict buildings, shouting, brandishing whatever weapons they had been able to lay hands on: bricks, bits of wood, chairs, sticks. They surged forward like a flood against Hassuna’s men who, taken by surprise, were rapidly forced on to the defensive. Ashur struck Hassuna’s arm and the club dropped from his fingers. He grappled with him, got him in a clinch, and squeezed him until his bones cracked. Then he lifted him high over his head and hurled him into the alley where he lay senseless and robbed of his honor.
The harafish surrounded the men of the clan and beat them with sticks and bricks. The lucky ones were those who escaped. In less than an hour the only people left in the alley were Ashur and a group of harafish.
46.
The number of combatants made this battle without precedent in the alley. The harafish, the overwhelming majority of the populace, had suddenly joined forces and prevailed over the clubs and long sticks. This sent a violent tremor through the private homes and businesses. The thread holding things in place had been broken. Anything was possible. However, the leadership of the clan had returned to the Nagi family, to a grave giant, whose clan was drawn for the first time from the people who made up the majority. Contrary to expectation, chaos did not follow. They closed ranks around their chief, with dedication and obedience. He towered above them like a lofty building, the look in his eyes inspiring them to create rather than wreck and destroy.
47.
At night Yunis al-Sayis and Galil al-Alim came to see Ashur. They were plainly uneasy. “I hope it won’t be necessary for the police to intervene,” began Sheikh Yunis.
“How many crimes have been committed under your nose and you never thought of calling the police?” said Ashur angrily.
“Sorry,” said the man excitedly. “You understand our position better than anyone. And can I remind you that although you owe thanks to them you’ll soon be at their mercy!”
“No one will be at anyone’s mercy.”
“All that kept them in check in the past was their weakness and lack of unity,” Sheikh Galil said apprehensively.
“I know them better than you,” said Ashur confidently. “I’ve lived alongside them in the open for a long time. And justice is the best cure for their ills.”
“What will become of the rich and the notables?” asked Yunis, after some hesitation.
“I love justice more than I love the harafish and more than I hate the notables,” declared Ashur unequivocally.
48.
Ashur did not flag for a moment in his efforts to realize the dream which had brought the harafish over to his side. He had taught them his interpretation of it in the open air and transformed them from layabouts, pickpockets, and beggars into the greatest clan the alley had known.
He quickly put the notables and the harafish on an equal footing and imposed heavy taxes on the rich. Many of them found life so unpleasant that they fled to distant parts of the city where the clans were unknown. Ashur imposed two duties on the harafish. The first was to train their sons in the virtues of the clan to maintain their power and prevent it ever falling into the hands of hooligans or soldiers of fortune. The second was to earn their living by a trade or a job which he could procure for them with money from the taxes. He himself continued to hawk fruit and vegetables and set up house with his mother in a small flat. So began an epoch in the history of the clan which was distinguished by its strength and integrity. Sheikh Galil was obliged to praise it publicly for its justice, and Sheikh Yunis did the same. But Ashur was suspicious of their inner thoughts, and had no doubt they grieved for the handouts that had come their way from the notables, or when the protection money was distributed under the old regime.
Sheikh Galil soon left the alley and Sheikh Ahmad Barakat was appointed in his place. Since Sheikh Yunis was appointed by the authorities, it was hard for him to move. Alone in his shop he would grumble, “There’s only rubbish left in this alley.”
He confided in Zayn al-Alabaya in the bar.
“How long is this going to last?” the bar owner asked anxiously.
“There’s no hope of a change while that barbarian’s alive.” He sighed, then went on, “I’m sure people like us had the same conversation in his ancestor’s time. We just have to be patient.”
49.
Ashur renewed the mosque, the fountain, the trough, and the Quran school, and founded a new school to accommodate the increase in numbers brought about by the arrival of the children of the harafish. Then he did what no one before him had dared to do: he arranged with a contractor to have the minaret demolished. His predecessors had been afraid of the wrath of the evil spirits which haunted it but the new chief wasn’t afraid of evil spirits. He towered over the alley like a minaret himself, but he was committed to justice, integrity, peace. He never provoked neighboring chiefs but brought them sharply into line if they initiated hostilities against him, as a warning to the others. In this way he established his supremacy without having to fight for it.
50.
Diya returned to the alley delightedly with the intention of reclaiming the coal yard and becoming a leading notable under his brother’s protection, but he didn’t meet with any encouragement and was obliged to stay put in his hotel in Bulaq.
Halima believed that the time had come for Ashur to think of his own happiness, and proposed that he should find a wife. “There are still some respectable families left in the alley who haven’t abused their wealth,” she said.
Bitterly Ashur remembered the attitude adopted by the Khashshabs and the Attars.
“I get the feeling you hanker for a better life,” he said to his mother.
“I don’t think there’s any justice in being unfair to yourself,” she said truthfully.
“No!” he said adamantly.
It was not the strength of a genuine refusal, but a strength assumed to hide the weakness he felt boiling in his entrails. How he longed sometimes for luxury and beauty! How he dreamed of life in a mansion with a soft-skinned woman! That was why he said no with such force. “I’m not going to be the one to destroy the most magnificent structure in the alley!”
He was determined that this refusal should come from within him, and not be the result of pressure from the harafish. He wanted to be better than his ancestor. The first Ashur had relied on his own strength, while he had made the harafish into an invincible force. His ancestor had been carried away by his passion; he would stand firm like the ancient wall. “No,” he repeated firmly. That was his sweetest victory: his victory over himself. He married Bahiyya, daughter of Adalat, the hairdresser, after seeing her and making inquiries on his own behalf. When Galal’s minaret was torn out of the ground, the alley celebrated with a night of dancing and music. After midnight Ashur went to the monastery square to gather his thoughts alone under the stars in the ocean of songs. He squatted on the ground, lulled by his feeling of contentment and the pleasant air. One of those rare moments of existence when a pure light glows. When body, mind, time, and place are all in harmony. It was as if the mysterious anthems were speaking in a thousand tongues. As if he understood why the dervishes always sang in a foreign language and kept their door closed.
A creaking sound spread through the darkness. He looked at the great door in astonishment. Gently, steadily, it was opening. The shadowy figure of a dervish appeared, a breath of night embodied.
“Get the flutes and drums ready,” the figure whispered, leaning toward him. “Tomorrow the Great Sheikh will come out of his seclusion. He will walk down the alley bestowing his light and give each young man a bamboo club and a mulberry fruit. Get the flutes and drums ready.”
He returned to the world of the stars and the songs and the night and the ancient wall, grasping at the tail ends of the vision; his fingers sunk into the waves of majestic darkness. He jumped to his feet, drunk on inspiration and power. Don’t be sad, his heart told him. One day the door may open to greet those who seize life boldly with the innocence of children and the ambition of angels.
The Harafish Page 38
