The Harafish (31 page)

“Go back home,” he said firmly.

“Don't cause a scandal,” she whispered in astonishment.

“Go home,” he repeated stubbornly.

She felt the eyes slithering toward her, snakelike, and was forced to go in, seething with rage.

45
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In the evening when he went home Muhammad Anwar was met by a tempest. He had fully expected it. The last thing he wanted was to continue being angry, to create a bad atmosphere, to see the beauty he adored destroyed through hostility and resentment. He showed a willingness to accept any compromises, provided Zahira gave in to his single legitimate demand.

“Don't imagine that I enjoy humiliating you,” he said to her. “All I want is for us to be happy.”

But she came at him like a dust storm, her face sickly yellow, her expression transformed, and sparks flying from her eyes. Her anger had materialized into black loathing, pride darted out at him like a viper. “God protect me from the evil in your heart,” he said to himself. “Think what I've made of you! Doesn't that work in my favor?”

46
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Zahira found herself in a hellish situation. She refused to accept defeat. She would not forget the painful confrontation in the alley. She didn't love him, had never loved him. But what could she do, and where would she go? In a situation like hers the wife returned to her family, but she had no family. She had a choice between submitting and preserving her status or walking the streets. There would be no shortage of people waiting to gloat, including Abd Rabbihi in his basement.

She remembered her first benefactor, Master Aziz, a leading notable and her husband's friend. At least her husband would know that she was not entirely without family support.

She slipped out to the cereal merchant's. A fine rain fell on her black wrap and her cheeks, prominent above the veil. She burst into his office and found him alone. He had an attractive dignity about him, as always. His mustache was prematurely gray. He knew her at once, in spite of her veil. He had no need to remember
those fascinating eyes, looking at him from either side of the gold nosepiece of her veil. He felt that this was fate storming his defenses. He heard the sweet voice. “You're the only person I can turn to in my trouble.”

“It's nothing serious, I hope?” he inquired, struggling to control his conflicting emotions.

“My husband.”

“He's a good man, as far as I know.”

“But he's started treating me much worse recently.”

“For no reason?”

“He wants to control me.” She told him the story of the incident in the alley. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “He behaved rather foolishly, but there's no denying he's within his rights.”

“There's not a woman in our alley who has to stay imprisoned in the house!” she declared fervently.

Master Aziz smiled. “I'll talk to him about you since you're a Nagi, but you'll have to agree to be sensible.”

47
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Aziz' intervention achieved very little. She had no choice but to submit, even if it was only for a while, and grudgingly. However, the meeting with Aziz had revealed possibilities which had never crossed her mind before. Exciting, crazy, wonderful possibilities that plunged her into a world bursting with dreams. She said to herself that Aziz liked her. No, it was more than that. His eyes had acknowledged his fascination. When had this begun? Every man that saw her was fascinated by her, but Aziz was not like the rest! Furthermore, he was married and so was she, and he was also middle-aged and renowned for his high-mindedness and untarnished reputation. A man like him wouldn't look at a married woman, the wife of a friend. And she had no interest in an illicit relationship. What would be the point? She was bent on getting her due and in the process had suppressed her emotions mercilessly, although she had tasted a rush of sublime frenzy sometimes in a glass of blessed wine. Aziz Nagi had appeared to her in a rosy
dreamlike glow: she had no idea how this could materialize in the real world. Could she, some magical day, become Ulfat's co-wife, and almost a daughter to Madame Aziza, preside over a magnificent house and have her own carriage with a tinkling bell?

Muhammad Anwar dwindled, until he turned into a smut blowing away down a road that stretched endlessly into the distance.

48
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When the peasant women arrived in town celebrating the flooding of the Nile and selling their dates, Zahira was giving birth to her second son, Radi, in considerable pain.

Muhammad Anwar's happiness distracted him from his other worries and he hoped the baby's birth would be the beginning of a new era of prudent, successful matrimony.

Umm Hishim, the midwife, tended Zahira each day until she had fully recovered. On her last visit she dropped her voice to a whisper and said, “I've got a message for you.”

Zahira looked inquiringly at her.

“A letter from heaven!” announced the old woman.

The notion that it was from Aziz flashed through her mind. “Who's it from really, Umm Hashim?” she urged.

Umm Hashim's features wore the pale mask of sin. “Nuh al-Ghurab, our local chief,” she said.

Zahira's heartbeat quickened in surprise. She had expected a comet from the east and one had come from the west instead. “Can't you see that I'm a wife and a mother?” she said crossly, regaining her composure.

“The sun rises and sets every day,” declared the old woman. “Don't shoot the messenger.”

49
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Muhammad Anwar soon relented. He forsook the hard character he had temporarily assumed and retreated into his natural state of weakness. He was finally convinced that Zahira was a jewel without
a heart who would slip through his fingers like the wind. Yet he could not imagine life without her. She was its breath, its guiding habit. She was also very dangerous, and there was not one part of her that he trusted. How could he forget what had happened to Abd Rabbihi the baker? The more his confidence was shaken, the more he longed to cling to her and keep hold of her at any price. If he failed in that it meant his whole life was a failure. In this world and the next. The quarrel between her and Raifa would remain a source of annoyance to him for all time. He was aware that he was the most wretched of men and should be ready to make any sacrifice required of him.

They were sitting together in the evening as usual, Zahira feeding Radi on the divan, Muhammad smoking a water pipe, and Galal playing with the cat. He could no longer stand Galal. He had always liked him and been kind to him in the past, but as soon as Radi came along he began to hate him and wished he would cease to exist. But he treated him the same as he always had done. He was cheerful and fatherly, but it was false now, an added worry in his catalogue of griefs.

He had decided to do the impossible to win her over. “I've got a surprise for you,” he announced.

She looked at him without interest.

“A peace offering.”

She smiled, and he went on, “A formal contract making you the owner of the house!”

She flushed. “What a generous man you are!” she exclaimed in delight.

It was a three-storied house with a shop selling ful beans on the ground floor.

Muhammad was glad at her obvious pleasure and felt somewhat reassured. She was genuinely grateful to him for making her into a property owner, grateful too that he had implicitly acknowledged her strength and regretted provoking her. But she still despised him and thought constantly about Aziz and Nuh al-Ghurab. Aziz was rich, Nuh powerful. Aziz had power too, while Nuh's wealth was increasing all the time. Aziz had one wife and Nuh had four, and a troop of children. You couldn't do without power or
money. One created the other. How would things turn out? She believed she had hardly started yet. Her mind wandered, envisaging the various scenarios as she lay next to Muhammad, listening to his regular breathing.

50
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Muhammad Anwar decided to safeguard his happiness through Nuh al-Ghurab. He paid him a formal visit at his house and sat before him in the guest hall like a boy in front of his schoolteacher. Without a word he handed him a promising bundle of notes. The chief took it and began counting it. “You've already paid your dues,” he said, “so why this enormous sum?”

“I need your protection,” said Muhammad.

“Do you have enemies?”

“It's just a preventive measure!”

Casually Nuh returned the money. He smiled. Muhammad's heart began to beat violently and his eyes widened in fear.

“Fate has beaten you to it,” murmured Nuh.

He groaned inwardly. Raifa had played her cards well, or so he imagined, since it did not occur to him that Nuh was acting on his own account.

“I was about to send for you…” began Nuh.

“What's going on?” interrupted Muhammad, his mouth dry.

“…to advise you to divorce your wife,” finished Nuh, odiously calm.

His heart plunged in his chest and he felt the touch of death. “Divorce her?” he demanded in amazement. “There's no reason why I should.”

“Divorce your wife,” pronounced Nuh conclusively.

51
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Muhammad left Nuh's house robbed of his five senses. Was it his turn to be treated like Abd Rabbihi? Had a respectable merchant ever endured such treatment before? Were his life, his happiness, his honor, to be disregarded as if they were worth nothing?

A desperate anger seized him, blowing away his indecision, concentrating his thoughts. “I'll do what nobody around here's ever done before,” he vowed, beside himself with rage.

52
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Gibril al-Fas, the alley's sheikh, approached Nuh at one of his regular sessions in the café. He greeted him. “The inspector wants to see you at the police station.”

Nuh looked startled. “Why?” he demanded, frowning.

“I don't know. I'm just delivering the message.”

“What if I refuse?” asked Nuh aggressively.

“Perhaps he wants to enlist your services in some matter of security,” said the sheikh amicably. “You shouldn't be unnecessarily hostile.”

The clan chief shrugged his shoulders scornfully and said nothing.

53
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The police inspector, Fuad Abd al-Tawwab, gave the clan chief a cordial reception. Nuh sat facing him across his desk, smiling as pleasantly as he could. The smell of leather filled his nostrils.

“I'm delighted to meet you, inspector,” he said.

The inspector smiled. He was stout, of average height with a bushy mustache and handsome features.

“Delighted to meet you too. The clan chief is really one of us!”

“Thank you, inspector.”

“The clan chief is the brave knight and protector of the alley, the embodiment of chivalry and honor, the hands and eyes of the police in his domain…that's how the Ministry of the Interior regards you.”

“Thank you, inspector,” repeated Nuh, his anxiety mounting.

With a firmness which belied his flattering comments, the police inspector went on, “Therefore, I expect Muhammad Anwar to be safe with you.”

“Has he complained to you about me?” asked Nuh, flushing with anger.

“I have my ways of finding out what's going on. And suppose he did come to me for help? He's entitled to. And it's my duty to guarantee his safety, but I'm quite happy to let you do that for me!”

A silence descended between them. He recognized the threat in the inspector's friendly manner.

“What do you say?” asked the inspector after a long pause.

“We're the first to respect the law,” answered Nuh, suspiciously calm.

“I consider you responsible for him.”

54
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Nothing like this had ever happened in the alley. The police only came near it in extreme emergencies. The clan chief's numerous crimes were usually unattributed, thanks to the testimony of false witnesses. Was Inspector Fuad Abd al-Tawwab going to do what nobody had done before him if Muhammad Anwar's body was discovered on the path or under the archway? How had Muhammad had the insolence to go to the police for help, and why had the inspector been ready to challenge Nuh in this underhand way? It seemed that for the first time a police inspector was measuring himself up against a clan chief, and challenging his elaborately contrived prestige.

But there was an aspect which people were unaware of, and that was the personality of Fuad Abd al-Tawwab. He was a fearless, stubborn man. In the countryside of Upper Egypt, before his transfer to Cairo, he had been known as The Killer. Had he not been hindered by the interior ministry and its long established policy toward clan chiefs, he would have embarked on a bold initiative to wipe them out altogether.

So as soon as he heard that Muhammad felt threatened, he decided on a show of strength which shut people's mouths and made their hearts tremble violently. One morning the alley woke up to find itself invaded by a detachment of armed men with the
inspector at its head. Military orders rang out and people rushed to look. Gibril al-Fas appeared, surrounded by police officers, then came the officer in charge of the local station, the inspector in his official uniform, and, bringing up the rear, a huge column of soldiers bristling with arms. The procession moved forward slowly and determinedly through the archway and into the monastery square. There they performed some noisy maneuvers before returning slowly the way they had come. The street was lined with people as if it was the day the pilgrims left for Mecca. The inspector showed no interest in them, but every now and then his eyes strayed to the windows crowded with women's faces. A little way from the fountain Sheikh Gibril went up to him and drew his attention to Zahira, the focus of the quarrel, standing in her window.