His father charged again, but his mother stood between them, taking the blows herself. Kirsha stopped striking out and yelled, “Take your black face away from me! Never come back here again. As far as I’m concerned, you have died and gone to hell!”
Hussain went to his room, took his bundle, and, with one jump, was down the stairs. Taking no notice of anything, he rushed through the alley and, before he passed into Sanadiqiya Street, he spat violently. His voice quivering in anger, he yelled, “Bah! God curse the alley and all who live in it.”
Mrs. Saniya Afify heard a knock on the door. She opened it and discovered, with indescribable pleasure, Umm Hamida’s pockmarked face before her.
“Welcome, welcome to my dearest friend!” she cried as though from the bottom of her heart.
They embraced affectionately, or at least so it seemed, and Mrs. Afify led her guest into her living room and told the servant to make coffee. They sat side by side on a sofa, and the hostess took out two cigarettes from her case, which they lit and sat pleasurably smoking.
Mrs. Afify had suffered the pangs of waiting ever since Umm Hamida promised to try to find a husband for her. It was surprising that, having lived patiently for many years as a widow, she could now scarcely bear this period of waiting, short though it was. Throughout the interval, she had made frequent visits to the marriage brokers. The latter had never stopped making her promises and raising her hopes. Eventually she became sure the woman was deliberately delaying in order to extract a reward larger than that agreed upon. Despite this, Mrs. Afify had been most generous and kind toward her, letting her off paying rent for her flat, giving her several of her own kerosene coupons, as well as her clothing ration, not to mention a dish of sweets she had commissioned Uncle Kamil to make for her.
Then the woman had announced her daughter Hamida’s engagement to Abbas! Mrs. Afify had done her best to appear delighted, although in fact the news had disturbed her greatly. Would she have to help equip the girl for her marriage before she could arrange her own trousseau? So it was that during the whole period she was apprehensive about Umm Hamida and yet tried always to be as friendly as possible to her.
She now sat at her side, stealing a glance at her from time to time, wondering what this visit would bring and whether it would be just more promises and high hopes or the good news she yearned to hear. Mrs. Afify did her best to hide her anxiety by keeping the conversation going, and so it was she, contrary to normal, who did most of the talking while Umm Hamida listened. She gossiped about Kirsha’s scandal and his son’s leaving home and criticized the disgraceful conduct of Mrs. Kirsha in trying to reform the lascivious habits of her husband. Then she drew the conversation around to Abbas and praised him highly. “He really is a nice young man. I’m sure God will be good to him and allow him to provide a happy life for his bride, who is worthy of nothing but the best.”
Umm Hamida smiled at this and replied, “First things first! I’ve come to see you today to tell you of your engagement, my bride!”
Mrs. Afify’s heart raced as she remembered how she had sensed that today’s visit might be decisive. Her face reddened as its fading pulse quickened with a new youthfulness. However, she managed to restrain herself and said in mock bashfulness, “What a shameful thing to say! What can you be thinking of, Umm Hamida!”
“I told you, madam, that I have come to tell you of your engagement,” her visitor reiterated, smiling in triumphant delight.
“Really! Oh, what a thing to happen! Yes, I do remember what we agreed on, but I can’t help feeling very upset and even ashamed about it. Oh, what a shameful thing!”
Umm Hamida joined in the acting and protested vigorously, “God forbid that you should feel ashamed about something in no way wrong or sinful. You are going to get married in accordance with God’s law and the practice of the Prophet.”
Mrs. Afify let out a sigh, like someone yielding gracefully against her will; what her visitor said about marriage had a delightful ring to her ears.
Umm Hamida took a deep puff from her cigarette, shook her head in confidence and satisfaction, and said, “A civil servant…”
Mrs. Afify was amazed. She gazed in complete disbelief at her visitor. A civil servant! Civil servants were rare fruits in Midaq Alley. Quizzically, she asked, “A civil servant?”
“Yes, that’s right, a civil servant!”
“In the government?”
“In the government!”
Umm Hamida was silent a moment, enjoying the hour of victory. Then she went on: “In the government and, what’s more, in the police department itself!”
“What sort of men are there in the department besides policemen and officers?” she now asked, even more surprised.
Umm Hamida looked at her with all the superiority of knowledge over ignorance and pointed out, “They have civil servants too. You ask me! I know the government and the jobs there, and all the ranks and salaries, too. Why, that’s my job, Mrs. Afify!”
“He must wear a suit, too!” exclaimed the widow, her surprise mixed with unbelievable delight.
“He wears jacket, trousers, a tarboosh, and shoes!”
“May God reward you for your great worth.”
“I choose good for good and make a point of knowing people’s value. If he had been in anything lower than the ninth grade, I would not have chosen him at all.”
“The ninth grade?” asked Mrs. Afify, somewhat querulously.
“The government consists of grades. Each civil servant has a grade. The ninth is one of those grades. His is a grade. But it’s not like all the other grades, oh no, my dear!”
“You really are a fine dear friend to me!” said Mrs Afify, her eyes shining with delight.
Umm Hamida expanded, her voice ringing with victory and confidence. “He sits at a big desk piled almost to the roof with folders and papers. Coffee is forever coming in and going out, with visitors seeking his help and asking him questions. He sits there and rebukes some and curses others. Policemen are always coming in to greet him, and all officers respect him…”
The widow smiled and her eyes took on a dreamy look as Umm Hamida continued: “His salary is not a penny less than ten pounds.”
Mrs. Afify hardly believed her and, sighing deeply, repeated, “Ten pounds!”
“Oh, that’s only a small part of what he gets,” Umm Hamida pointed out simply. “A civil servant’s salary is not all he makes. With a little cleverness he can make twice as much. And don’t forget his cost-of-living allowance, marriage allowance, children’s allowance…”
The widow gave a slightly nervous laugh and asked, “My goodness, Umm Hamida, what have I got to do with children!”
“Our Lord can accomplish all things…”
“We must give Him praise and thanks for His goodness in any case.”
“By the way, he is thirty years of age.”
“Good gracious, I am ten years older than he!” exclaimed the widow, as though unable to believe her visitor.
Umm Hamida was not unaware that the widow was deliberately forgetting ten years of her life, but she merely said in a somewhat reproachful tone, “You are still a young woman, Mrs. Afify! Anyhow, I told him you were in your forties and he was delighted to agree.”
“He was, really? What’s his name?”
“Ahmad Effendi Talbat. He is the son of Hajji Talbat Issa, who owns a grocer’s shop in Umm Ghalam. He comes from a fine family and he can trace his ancestors back to Lord Hussain himself.”
“A good family indeed. I, too, as you know, come from a noble stock.”
“Yes, I know, my dear. He is a man who associates only with the best people. If it weren’t for that, he would have married long ago. Anyway, he doesn’t approve of modern girls and says they have too little modesty. When I told him of your excellent qualities and your bashfulness and that you were a noble and wealthy lady, he was delighted and said that you were the perfect wife for him. However, he did ask for one thing, which was quite correct. He asked t
o see your photo.”
The widow fidgeted and her face blushed as she said, “Why, I haven’t had my picture taken in a long time.”
“Don’t you have an old photo?”
She nodded toward a picture on the bookcase in the middle of the room. Umm Hamida leaned over and examined it carefully. The photo must have been more than six years old, taken at a time when Mrs. Afify still had some fullness and life in her. She looked at the picture then back at its subject. “A very good likeness. Why, it might have been taken only yesterday.”
“May God reward you generously,” sighed Mrs. Afify.
Umm Hamida put the photograph, with its frame, into her pocket and lit the cigarette offered her.
“Well, we’ve had a nice long talk,” she said, exhaling the smoke slowly. “You must certainly have an idea of what he expects.”
For the first time the widow now gazed at her with a look of apprehension and waited for her to continue. When she remained silent, Mrs. Saniya Afify smiled wanly and asked, “And what do you think he expects?”
Did she really not know? Did she think he wanted to marry her for her youth and beauty? Umm Hamida was a little angry at the thought. She ignored the question and substituted her own instead. “I take it you have no objection to preparing your own trousseau?”
Mrs. Afify immediately understood what she meant—the man did not want to pay for a dowry and expected her to provide it. Ever since she had set her mind on getting married she had realized that this was likely to be the case. Moreover, Umm Hamida had hinted at this before and the widow did not intend to oppose the idea.
“May God help us,” she said in a tone of humble resignation.
“Let us ask God for success and happiness,” said Umm Hamida, smiling.
When she got up to leave the two women embraced affectionately. Mrs. Afify accompanied her to the outer door of her flat and leaned on the banister as the matchmaker descended the stairs. Just before she disappeared from sight, Mrs. Afify called after her, “Thank you very much indeed. Kiss Hamida for me.”
Then she returned again to her flat, her spirits soaring with new hope. She sat down and attempted to recall everything that Umm Hamida had said, sentence by sentence, word for word. Mrs. Afify was inclined to meanness but she would never allow this to stand in the way of her happiness. For a long time money had sweetened her loneliness; both what she kept in a bank and that which was carefully wrapped in neat bundles in her ivory casket. This money, however, would never compete with the fine man who was to become, with God’s permission, her husband.
Would he be pleased with her photograph? she wondered. She flushed at the thought. She moved to the mirror, where she stood turning her head right and left, until she felt she had found her most attractive position; here she stopped and murmured to herself, “May God veil me.”
Then she returned to the sofa, saying to herself, “Money covers all blemishes.” Had not the matchmaker told her she was well off? And so she was! The fifties were not the years for despair and she still had a full ten years ahead of her. And many women of sixty could still be happy if only God were kind enough to keep them from illness. Why, marriage could certainly regenerate a faded figure, revitalize a listless body. She blinked suddenly and asked herself, “What will everyone be saying tomorrow?” She knew the answer and was aware that Umm Hamida would be in the foreground of those gossips. They would be saying that Mrs. Afify had gone out of her mind. They would say she was old enough to be the mother of this man of thirty whom she was about to marry. She knew also they would delight in estimating what it had cost to repair the damage time had wrought on her. No doubt they would probably gossip about many other things which were too humiliating to imagine. Let them say what they liked. Had their evil tongues ever stopped slashing her all the time she was a widow? Mrs. Afify shrugged and sighed, “Oh, God, save me from the evil eye!”
Suddenly she was struck by a comforting thought, which she immediately determined to act upon. That was to see Rabah, the old woman who lived at the Green Gate. She would ask for a good-luck charm and have her horoscope read. Now was the ideal time for both, she thought.
“What do I see? You are indeed a venerable man!”
Zaita made this pronouncement as he looked up into the face of an erect old man standing before him. To be sure, his cloak was in rags and his body emaciated, but it was as the cripple-maker had said, he had a most venerable appearance. His head was large, his hair white, and his face elongated. His eyes were peaceful and humble. His tall and distinguished bearing was that of a retired Army officer.
Zaita sat scanning him closely by the light of his dim lamp. He spoke again. “But you really look like such a dignified man. Are you sure you want to become a beggar?”
“I am already a beggar, but not a successful one,” answered the man quietly.
Zaita cleared his throat and spat on the floor, wiping his lips with the hem of his black shirt before he spoke. “You are too frail to bear any great pressure on your limbs. In fact, it’s not advisable to perform an artificial deformity after the twenties. You seem to think that a crippled body is just as easy to make as a real one. As long as the bones remain soft, I can guarantee any beggar a permanent deformity, but you are an old man with not long to live. What do you want me to do for you?”
He sat thinking. Whenever Zaita thought deeply, his mouth opened wide and his tongue quivered and darted to and fro like the head of a snake. After a while he suddenly blinked his eyes and shouted, “Dignity is the most precious type of deformity there is!”
“What do you mean, reverend sir?” asked the old man, somewhat perplexed.
Zaita’s face clouded with anger as he shouted, “Reverend sir! Have you ever heard me reciting at burials?”
His anger had surprised the old man and he spread out his palms in a gesture begging forgiveness. “Oh no, God forbid…I was only trying to show my respect for you.”
Zaita spat twice and his voice took on a proud tone. “The best doctors in Egypt can’t do what I can. Did you know that making a person appear crippled is a thousand times more difficult than really crippling him? Why, to really cripple someone would be as easy for me as spitting in your face.”
“Please don’t be angry with me. God is most merciful and forgiving,” pleaded the old man.
Zaita’s irritation gradually subsided and he stared at the old man. At last he said, his voice still sounding somewhat unfriendly, “I said that dignity is the most precious deformity.”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“Your distinction will ensure you great success as a beggar.”
“My distinction, sir?”
Zaita drew out half a cigarette from a mug on the shelf. He then returned the mug to its place and lit the cigarette through the open glass of the lamp. He took a long puff, his bright eyes narrowing, and said quietly, “It isn’t a deformity you need. No, what you need is even greater handsomeness and intelligence. Give your robe a good washing and somehow get yourself a secondhand tarboosh. Always move your body with grace and dignity. Casually approach people in cafés and stand aside humbly. Extend your palm without saying a word. Speak only with your eyes. Don’t you know the language of the eyes? People will look at you in amazement. They will say that surely you are someone from a noble family who has fallen on hard times. They will never believe that you are a professional beggar. Do you understand what I mean? Your venerability will earn for you double what the others make with their deformities…”
Zaita asked him to try out his new role on the spot. He stood watching him critically, smoking his cigarette. After a while, though, Zaita scowled and said, “No doubt you’ve told yourself that there’ll be no fee for me, since I’ve given you no deformity. You’re free to do as you like, provided you beg in some other quarter, not here.”
The old man protested his innocence and said in a hurt voice, “How could I think of deceiving the man who has made my fortune for me?”
At that the me
eting came to an end, and Zaita led the old man to the street. He took him as far as the outer door of the bakery. On his way back, he noticed Husniya, the bakeress, squatting alone on a mat. There was no trace of Jaada, and Zaita always seized any opportunity to chat with Husniya. He wished to be on friendly terms with her and to express his secret admiration for her.
“Did you see that old man?” he asked.
“Someone wanting to be crippled, wasn’t it?” she asked indifferently.
Zaita chuckled and told her the story. She laughed and cursed him for his devilish cunning. Then he moved toward the door leading into his den but stopped, turned, and asked her, “Where’s Jaada?”
“In the baths,” the woman answered.
At first Zaita thought she was making sarcastic fun of him for his notorious filth, and he looked at her warily. However, he saw that she was serious. Now he realized that Jaada had gone to the baths in Gamaliya, a thing he did twice yearly. That meant he would surely not be back before midnight. He told himself there was no harm in sitting down and chatting with Husniya for a while.
He was encouraged by the obvious delight she took in his story. He sat on the threshold of his door, leaning back and stretching his legs like two thin sticks of charcoal, deliberately ignoring Husniya’s astonishment as he did so. As the owner of his small room, she had only exchanged greetings when he entered or left. Apart from that she treated him as she did everyone else in the alley. She never thought the landlady-tenant relationship would change. She had not the slightest notion that he made a point of observing the most intimate details of her life. In fact, Zaita had found a hole in the wall between his room and the bakery; this served his curiosity and provided substance for his lecherous dreams.
Slowly his intimate knowledge of her made him feel like one of the family, watching her at work and at rest. It especially delighted Zaita to watch her beating her husband. She did this at his slightest mistake. Jaada’s days seemed to be filled with mistakes, for which he was constantly pummeled. Indeed, beatings were almost a part of his daily routine. Sometimes he would accept them in silence, and at other times he howled wildly and his fists swung in the air. He never failed to burn the bakery bread, and he regularly stole a little something, which he secretly ate when his duties permitted. Sometimes he bought a special sweet cake from money he earned for delivering bread to the alley houses. He made no attempt to stop or conceal his daily petty crimes; consequently, he could not avoid his wife’s painful beatings.