As for his family, well, his fortune was large enough to satisfy all of them and his new marriage would cost no more than a title would. His anger cooled now and his mood was much better; his thinking had greatly relieved his anxieties. He told himself that he must never forget that he was a man of flesh and blood; otherwise he would fail to do justice to himself and merely succumb to fears and worries, which would eventually devour him.
What good was his fortune if he were to deny himself what he wanted and what he could so easily have. Why should he be consumed with longing for a body that could be his at merely a nod of his head?
Umm Hamida hurried back, and on the short walk between her flat and Alwan’s office her mind was filled with conflicting dreams. She found Hamida standing in the middle of the room combing her hair. The older woman eyed her closely as if seeing her for the first time. She saw her as the clever female who had managed to captivate a man of Alwan’s respectability, age, and wealth. Umm Hamida was experiencing something very much like envy. She was aware that half the money this anticipated marriage would bring the girl would go to her, and that she would be amply rewarded for each blessing that fell on the girl. She could not, however, dispel this strange feeling that weighed down her happiness, and she asked herself, “How could fate offer this happiness to a girl who knew neither a father nor a mother?” Now she wondered, “Has Mr. Alwan never heard her awful voice as she screams at the neighbors? Has he never seen one of her tantrums?” Without taking her eyes off the girl, Umm Hamida made a clucking sound and commented, “My, my, you were certainly born under a lucky star!”
Hamida stopped combing her shining black hair and laughingly asked, “Why? What do you mean? Is there anything new?”
The matchmaker took off her cloak and threw it on the settee. Then she said quietly, closely watching the girl’s eyes to see the effect of what she would say, “Yes, a new husband!”
The girl’s eyes flashed in interest and surprise as she asked, “Are you serious?”
“A very important man, indeed, and not just a dreamer, you bitch.”
Hamida’s heart beat furiously and her eyes shone so that their whites flashed. She asked, “Who is he?”
“Guess.”
“Who?” the girl asked, bursting with curiosity.
Shaking her head and making her eyebrows dance, the matchmaker replied, “Mr. Salim Alwan, in all his full majesty!”
Hamida gripped her comb so tightly that its teeth almost broke in her hand. She shouted, “Salim Alwan, the owner of the company?”
“Himself. A man who has so much wealth that it can’t be counted.”
Hamida’s face glowed with happiness and she muttered unconsciously, almost beside herself with amazement and happiness, “What a shock!”
“What good news! It couldn’t be sweeter. I wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t told me himself.”
The girl stuck her comb in her hair and rushed over to her adoptive mother’s side. Shaking her shoulders, she demanded, “What did he say? Tell me everything—word for word.”
She listened attentively as Umm Hamida told her what had happened. Her heart throbbed and her face flushed, her eyes glistening proudly. Here at last was the stroke of fortune she had always dreamed of. This at last was the man who could give her all the luxury and freedom from drudgery she prayed for. She could think of no cure for her hunger for power other than a great deal of money. She wanted the other things it would bring: dignity, beautiful clothes, jewelry, pride, and a whole new world of secure and happy people.
Her mother stood surveying the girl and then asked, “What do you think?”
Umm Hamida had no idea how she would reply. She was determined to have an argument with the girl, in any case. If she said, “Mr. Alwan,” she would reply, “And Abbas?” and if Hamida were to say, “Abbas,” she would reply, “And are we going to part with Mr. Alwan?” As it happened, Hamida replied, as if not believing she was being asked the question, “What do I think?”
“Yes, what do you think? The matter isn’t easy to decide. Have you forgotten that you are engaged? And that I confirmed it by reading the Qur’an with Abbas?”
A vicious look came into the girl’s eyes and shattered her beauty. She shouted in full, angry scorn, “That barber!”
Her mother was amazed at the speed with which Hamida decided the matter. It was almost as though the barber had never existed. Her old feelings that her daughter was ambitious and cruel were renewed. She never really doubted what the girl’s choice would be, but she would have preferred at least a little thought. She had hoped the girl would hesitate and that she could then convince her. She had certainly not expected to hear Hamida pronounce the word “barber” with such cutting scorn. The foster mother went on in a critical tone: “Yes, the barber. Have you forgotten that he’s your fiancé?”
No, she had not forgotten, but in this case, to forget and to remember were really one and the same. Was her mother going to stand in her way? The girl peered closely at her and saw that her criticism was a mere sham. She shook her shoulders indifferently. “He must go.”
“What will people say about us?”
“Let them say what they like…”
“I’ll go and talk to Radwan Hussainy.”
Hamida blanched at mention of him and objected. “What’s he got to do with my personal affairs?”
“Our family has no other man to consult.”
She did not wait for a reply but rose quickly, put on her cloak, and left the flat, saying, “I’ll ask his advice and come back at once.” The girl gazed after her in disapproval. Noticing that she had not finished combing her hair, mechanically she stroked her head, her eyes showing that she was lost in a world of sweet dreams. She rose, stood looking through the window at the business premises across the street, and then returned to her seat.
As her mother guessed, Hamida had not abandoned Abbas without some thought. Yes, at one time she had thought she was bound to Abbas forever, and she was happy in the thought. She expressed her love by kissing him and it pleased him to hear her speaking of the future as though they would share it together. She promised to visit the mosque of Hussain to pray for him and had indeed done so; normally she only went there to pray that one of her enemies be punished after some quarrel or other. But now things were different. After all, was it not Abbas who had raised her status from that of an ordinary girl to that of an engaged young woman? Now Mrs. Kirsha could no longer pull her long hair and threaten, “I’ll cut this off if ever anyone gets engaged to you!”
Nonetheless, she knew she was virtually napping in the mouth of a volcano, and at no time had she felt quite satisfied with the whole matter. There was a constant restlessness inside her. True, Abbas eased some of her longing but he was not really the man she dreamed of as a husband. She had been confused about him since they first met and she remained so. Her ideas about what her husband should be like were quite unformed, and Abbas had certainly failed to form them. She told herself that actually living with him might possibly make her happier than she could imagine. This thought was with her constantly. But thought is a double-edged blessing and she had found herself asking what kind of happiness he could really give her. Was she overoptimistic in her dreams? Abbas promised to return and open a shop in Mousky Street, but could a shopkeeper’s life give her many more comforts than she had now?
These thoughts confused her and strengthened her fears that the barber was not the ideal husband for her. She realized that her indifference toward him would never permit their living together happily. But what was she to do? Had she not bound herself to him forever? Oh God, why had she not learned a profession, as her friends had? If she knew how to do something, she could have waited and married when and whomever she wished, or perhaps she might never have married at all.
This, then, was her state of mind when Salim Alwan asked her hand in marriage. And so it was that she could discard her first fiancé with no regrets because he had really been banished f
rom her heart a long time before.
Her foster mother was not gone long. She soon returned from Radwan Hussainy’s house, her face reflecting the seriousness of the situation. Taking off her cloak, she puffed, “He would not agree at all.”
Then she told what had happened between her and Radwan, how he compared the two men, saying, “The barber is young and Mr. Alwan is old; the barber is of the same class as Hamida and Mr. Alwan is not. The marriage of a man like Alwan to a girl like your daughter is bound to bring problems which will make her unhappy.” He had finished by saying, “Abbas is a good young man and he has left home to improve his condition because he’s eager for this marriage. He is by far the better husband for Hamida. You must simply wait. If he comes back penniless, which God forbid, then it is clearly within your right to marry her to the man of your choice.”
Hamida listened, her eyes flashing fire, then she shouted, her anger revealing the ugliness of her coarse voice, “Radwan Hussainy is, of course, one of God’s saints, or that’s what he thinks he is. When he gives an opinion he cares nothing for anyone’s feelings, so long as he has the respect of saints like himself. My happiness doesn’t interest him in the slightest! No doubt he was influenced by the Qur’an, as a man with a long beard like him is bound to be. Don’t ask him about my marriage! If you ask anything, ask him to explain a verse or chapter of the Qur’an to you. Why, if he were as good as you think he is, God wouldn’t have taken all his sons!”
“Is that the sort of thing to say about the finest man alive?” asked the stunned Umm Hamida.
The girl shouted back viciously, “He’s a fine man if you like. He’s a saint if you like. He’s even a prophet. But he’s not going to interfere with my happiness!”
Umm Hamida was pained by the girl’s disrespect for the man, but not because she wanted to defend his opinion, with which she herself secretly disagreed. Prompted by a desire to anger the girl even more, she commented, “But you are engaged to be married!”
“A girl is free until the marriage agreement is signed. Nothing has passed between us but words and a dish of sweets!” answered Hamida, laughing sarcastically.
“And the recitation of the Qur’an?”
“Forgiveness is honorable…”
“Punishment for violating the Qur’an is harsh, you know.”
“I don’t give a damn!” snarled the girl.
Umm Hamida beat her breast and cried, “You serpent’s child, you!”
Hamida noticed traces of hidden approval in her foster mother’s eyes and she cried, laughing, “Go and marry him yourself, go on.”
This pleased the woman and she clapped her hands together and snapped, “It’s just like you to sell a dish of sweets in exchange for the bowl of spiced green wheat.”
“On the contrary, I’ve refused a young man and chosen an old one.”
“There’s plenty of fat on an old rooster!” roared her foster mother. She settled down comfortably on the settee and soon forgot her mock opposition to the girl. She took a cigarette from a case, lighted it, and smoked it with a look of deep pleasure on her face.
Hamida looked at her and burst out angrily, “By God, I think you are twice as pleased as I with my new fiancé. You were just deliberately trying to make me mad! God damn you!”
The older woman stared at her and spoke slowly and meaningfully. “When a man like Mr. Alwan marries a girl, he’s really marrying her whole family, just as when the Nile overflows, it floods all Egypt. Do you understand what I mean? Or do you think you’re going off to your new palace while I stay here under the care of Mrs. Saniya Afify and others like her?”
Hamida, who was braiding her hair, burst into laughter and said with exaggerated pride, “In the care of Mrs. Saniya Afify, and Mrs. Hamida Alwan!”
“Of course…of course, you street orphan, you daughter of an unknown father.”
Hamida went on laughing. “Unknown, that’s right! Unknown! But many known fathers aren’t worth that!” she said, snapping her two fingers in her foster mother’s face.
—
The next morning Umm Hamida cheerfully set out for Alwan’s office to read the Qur’an and to confirm the engagement. She had not a care in the world. However, she did not find Mr. Alwan at his desk, and when she inquired, she was told that he would not be in that day. She returned home, her happiness replaced by a feeling of uneasiness. Halfway through the morning, the news spread through the alley that the previous night Salim Alwan had suffered a heart attack. He was now in bed hovering between life and death.
A swift wave of sadness spread through the alley, but in Umm Hamida’s house the news struck like a thunderbolt.
One morning Midaq Alley awoke to a tumult of great noise and confusion. Men were setting up a pavilion in a vacant lot in Sanadiqiya Street, opposite Midaq Alley. The sight distressed Uncle Kamil, who thought they were constructing a funeral pavilion. In his shrill, high voice he wailed, “We all belong to God and to Him will we return; O Almighty, O Omniscient One, O Master.” He shouted to a youth passing in the street and asked him who had died.
“The pavilion isn’t for a corpse, it’s for an election campaign party!” answered the boy with a laugh.
Uncle Kamil shook his head and mumbled, “Saad and Adly again.” He knew nothing of the world of politics, apart from a few names he had picked up without comprehending their significance. Oh yes, hanging in his shop was a huge picture of the politician Mustafa al-Nahas, but that was only because one day Abbas bought two pictures of the leader and one was hung in the barbershop, the other he gave to Uncle Kamil. He saw no harm in hanging it in his shop and anyway such pictures were part of every shop’s decor. Why, even in the grocer’s in Sanadiqiya Street there were two pictures of the nationalist leaders, one of Saad Zaghlul and the other of Mustafa al-Nahas. And in Kirsha’s café there was a picture of the Khedive Abbas.
Piece by piece they continued building the pavilion; vertical struts were put up and ropes tied between them on which screens were hung. The floor was covered with sand; chairs were set up on both sides of a narrow middle passage leading to a raised stage inside the pavilion. Loudspeakers were on all the street corners between the mosque of Hussain and Ghouriya Street. But the best thing of all was the wide-open entrance to the pavilion, which allowed the alley people to watch the spectacle from their houses. Above the stage was a picture of the Prime Minister and under it one of Farhat, the candidate, whom most people in the quarter knew. He was a merchant on Nahasin Street. Two boys walked about putting posters on the walls. On them was printed in brilliant colors:
Elect your independent candidate, Ibrahim Farhat,
In accord with the original principles of Saad.
The days of tyranny and destitution are over.
Now is the time of justice and prosperity.
They tried to paste a poster on Uncle Kamil’s shop, but Abbas’ departure had had a shattering effect on him and he prevented them firmly, “Not here, my fine fellows. It would bring bad luck to cut off my livelihood.”
“No, it could mean a fortune for you,” said one of the boys. “If the candidate sees it today, he’ll buy up your whole stock of sweets at double the value.”
By midmorning the work was completed and the area took on its usual quietness. This lasted until late afternoon, when Ibrahim Farhat appeared to direct the operation. He was surrounded by his retinue. Although not stingy, he was a merchant who always made the most minute scrutiny of his budget, thus spending only what was absolutely necessary. A short, stocky man, he strutted at the head of the crowd dressed in a flowing robe. His brown circular face, with its active eyes, surveyed everything as he walked. His stride expressed the man’s pride and self-confidence and his eyes revealed his honest simplicity. His appearance indicated that his belly was of far greater importance than his head.
His arrival created a stir in the alley and the surroundings, for they all considered him the man of the moment, as it were, and hoped for considerable benefit from his bou
nty. Behind him were groups of boys, following a man in a suit who kept shouting in a voice of thunder, “Who will be our deputy?” The youths chanted, “Ibrahim Farhat.” “Who is the son of this district?” and they yelled back, “Ibrahim Farhat,” and so on. This continued until the street was full of youths, many of whom entered the pavilion. All this time the candidate acknowledged the shouts by raising his hands above his head.
Eventually he moved toward the alley, followed by his retinue, most of whom appeared to be weight lifters from the local sports club. He approached the old barber who had taken over Abbas’ place and held out his hand, saying, “Peace be upon you, brother Arab.” He then bowed low in humble greeting and passed on to Uncle Kamil, saying, “Please don’t bother to get up; please, for our Lord Hussain’s sake, remain seated. How are you? God is great, God is great. My, this sweetmeat of yours looks delicious, as everyone will know tonight.”
He passed on, greeting everyone, until he arrived at Kirsha’s café. He saluted Kirsha and asked his companions to be seated. People streamed into the café from all sides; even Jaada, the baker, and Zaita, the cripple-maker, were there. The candidate surveyed the assembled multitude with delight and then turned to Kirsha, “Please serve everyone tea.”