Midaq Alley

  He smiled in reply to the thanks from all parts of the café, and then said to Kirsha, “I hope the café will be able to supply the pavilion’s needs.”

  “We are at your service, sir.”

  Kirsha’s stiffness did not escape the candidate, who said politely, “We are all sons of the same district, we are all brothers!”

  Farhat had come to the café with the firm intention of winning over Kirsha. He had invited him to call some days previously, in the hope of gaining the support of Kirsha and those other café owners and workmen over whom Kirsha had influence. Farhat had offered him fifteen pounds for his support. Kirsha had refused, protesting that he was just as good as al-Fawal, who owned another café and who had reportedly received twenty pounds. Eventually, Farhat persuaded him to accept the money and made a promise of more. They had parted with the candidate feeling apprehensive that Kirsha might rebel against him. Indeed, Kirsha was still annoyed with those “politicos,” as he called them, and would continue to harbor ill will unless he was offered a substantial sum for his support.

  Kirsha really came to life during political campaigns. In his youth he had distinguished himself in the field of politics. He had taken an active part in the rebellion of 1919 and was reputed to have planned the great fire which destroyed the Jewish Cigarette Trading Co. in Hussain Square. He was one of the heroes in the fierce fighting between the revolutionaries on one side and the Armenians and Jews on the other. When the bloody revolt subsided he had found a new, though restricted outlet for his energies in the subsequent election battles. In the elections of 1924 and 1925 his work was much appreciated even though it was rumored that he accepted bribes from the government candidate while supporting the Wafd party. He had hoped to play the same role in the Sidqy elections, to accept money while boycotting the elections. However, government eyes watched him and he was one of several who were taken to the election headquarters. Thus, for the first time, he was forcibly prevented from giving his support to the Wafd. His last contact with politics was in 1936; it was then he decided to divorce politics and wed commerce. Since then he merely observed politics as he watched other lucrative markets, and he became the supporter of whoever “paid most.”

  He excused this renunciation by pointing to the corruption in political life. He would say, “If money is the aim and object of those who squabble for power, then there is clearly no harm in money being the objective of the poor voters.” Now he was content to be corrupt, absentminded, and beset by his own passions. All the spirit of the old revolutionary was gone, except for those vague memories that returned occasionally when he huddled over his warm brazier. He had rejected respectable life and now he cared only for the pleasures of the flesh. All else was pointless, he would say. He no longer hated anyone, not the Jews or the Armenians, nor even the British.

  He had no favorites either, and it was surprising, then, that at one time he felt a curious enthusiasm for the present war, in which he sided with the Germans. He often wondered about Hitler’s plans and whether it was possible that the Führer might lose the war and whether the Russians would not be wise to accept the unilateral peace offered them. Kirsha thought of Hitler as the world’s greatest bully; indeed, his admiration for him stemmed from what he heard of his cruelty and barbarity. He wished him success, viewing him like those mythical bravados of literature Antar and Abu Zaid.

  Despite all this, Kirsha still enjoyed a position of some power in local politics. This was partly because he was the leader of all the café owners, who had regular evening meetings, and therefore the leader of their employees and hangers-on. So it was that Farhat cultivated his friendship and spent an hour of his precious time sitting in his café to achieve this end.

  From time to time he glanced at Kirsha and now he leaned toward the café owner’s ear and whispered, “Are you happy, then, Mr. Kirsha?”

  Kirsha’s lips spread in a slight smile as he answered cautiously, “Praise be to God. You are the very soul of goodness and generosity, Mr. Farhat.”

  “I will compensate you well for what you missed before.”

  This pleased Kirsha. He glanced into all the faces present, and commented, “If God wills, you won’t disappoint our high hopes of you…”

  From all sides voices were raised in unison: “Oh, God forbid, Mr. Farhat. You’re the man we will vote for.”

  The candidate smiled and broke into a peroration: “I am, as you know, independent, but I will keep to the true principles of Saad Zaghlul. What good are the parties to us? Haven’t you heard their constant, senseless bickering? They are like…” (he almost said “the sons of whores,” but he suddenly recalled he was now addressing such sons). He checked himself and continued: “Let’s not talk in metaphors. I have chosen to remain independent of the parties, so that nothing will prevent me from telling the truth. I will never be the slave of a minister or a party leader. In Parliament, if God grants us victory, I will always speak in the name of the people of Midaq Alley, Ghouriya, and Sanadiqiya. The days of empty talk and bribery are over, and we are entering a period when nothing will distract us from those matters of vital interest to you—such as increased clothing rations, sugar, kerosene, cooking oil, no more impure bread, and lower meat prices.”

  Someone asked in all seriousness, “Is it true you will provide these necessities tomorrow?”

  “There’s no question about it,” answered the candidate in a confident tone. “This is the secret of the present revolution. Only yesterday I visited the Prime Minister…” He realized he had said he was independent and went on: “He was receiving all types of candidates, and he told us that his period of office will be one of prosperous plenty.”

  He moistened his lips and continued: “You will see miracle after miracle.” “And don’t forget there will be rewards for all, if I win.”

  “Rewards only after the election results?” asked Dr. Booshy.

  The candidate, uneasy with this question, turned toward him and said hurriedly, “And before the results are out, too.”

  Sheikh Darwish now emerged from his usual silent fold and spoke in a far-off voice: “Just like a dowry; he will give both before and after; so it is with all of them, except you, O Madam of Madams. You bring no dowry, for my spirit drew you down from the heavens themselves.”

  The candidate swiveled angrily toward the old man, but when he saw Darwish in a cloak and necktie and with gold-rimmed spectacles, he realized that he was a saintly man of God. A smile appeared on Farhat’s round face and he said politely, “Welcome, indeed, to our reverend sir.”

  Darwish made no reply and retreated into his usual state of torpor. Then one of the candidate’s supporters shouted, “You can do what you like, but we are going to swear by the Holy Book…”

  More than one voice replied, “Yes, that’s right. We must…”

  Farhat asked to see the voting cards of all present, and when he asked for Uncle Kamil’s, the latter explained, “I don’t have one. I’ve never taken part in any election.”

  The candidate asked, “Where is your birthplace?”

  “I couldn’t tell you,” answered Kamil indifferently.

  Everyone in the café burst out laughing and Farhat joined them, saying, “I must fix that little matter with the sheikh of the quarter.”

  A boy dressed in a loose-flowing robe entered the café carrying a pile of small posters, which he distributed to all. Many assumed they were election posters and accepted them to please the candidate. Farhat took one and found that it read:

  “Something is missing from your married life. Take Sanatury potion. Sanatury potion: Prepared scientifically, it is completely free from injurious ingredients. It has the endorsement of the Ministry of Health under license 128. It will revitalize and rejuvenate you. It will transport you from old age to youth in just fifty minutes.

  “How to use it: Put a grain in a glass of very sweet tea and you will find your vitality restored. Far stronger, weight for weight, than any other known stimulant. It flows li
ke electricity through the veins. Get your jar from the distributor of this announcement, the price is only 30 milliemes. So cheap! Your happiness for just 30 milliemes! We welcome our customers’ comments.”

  Once again the laughter in the café made the candidate feel a bit uneasy. One of his retinue volunteered to ease his embarrassment by shouting, “This is a good sign.” Then he whispered in Farhat’s ear, “Let’s go. We have many more places to visit.”

  The candidate rose and addressed the café assembly: “We leave you in God’s care, then. May we meet again. I hope God will fulfill all our hopes.”

  He hesitated at Sheikh Darwish’s chair, and with a hand on his shoulder, whispered, “Please pray for me, Sheikh.”

  Emerging from his silence, Sheikh Darwish spread his hands wide in blessing and intoned, “May the devil take you!”

  —

  Before the sun had set the pavilion was filled. The audience passed the news from one to the other that an important politician would deliver a major speech. It was also rumored that reciters and comedians would perform. Before long a man appeared on the stage and recited from the Qur’an. He was followed by a musical ensemble consisting of old men in tattered robes who played the national anthem. The music from the loudspeakers instantly attracted young people from the nearby alleys and they soon choked Sanadiqiya Street.

  Applause and voices filled the air, and when the national anthem was finished, the musicians made no attempt to leave the stage. Indeed, it almost seemed that the candidates might make their speeches to the accompaniment of music. Several of them stamped hard on the stage floor until the throng was silent. Presently a well-known monologue reciter, dressed in his village costume, rose and instantly the crowd went wild with anticipation and delight. When the applause subsided, the performer delivered his monologue. He was followed by a half-naked woman dancer, whose undulations were accented by cries of “Mr. Ibrahim Farhat—a thousand times…a thousand times.” The man in charge of the microphones and loudspeakers joined her shouts with “Mr. Ibrahim Farhat is the very best deputy. Microphones by Bahlul are the finest microphones.” The singing, dancing, and applause continued as the entire quarter joined in the celebrations.

  When Hamida returned from her afternoon stroll she found the party in full swing. Like everyone else in the alley, she had thought it would be merely a political rally with long speeches delivered in almost incomprehensible classical Arabic. Her heart danced when she saw the merry scene. She quickly looked about for a spot where she could watch the musicians and the dancing, the likes of which she had never seen. She pushed her way through the crowd until she finally reached the entrance to the alley. She moved close to the barbershop and climbed on a big rock near its wall. From here she could see the stage perfectly.

  Boys and girls pressed around her from all sides. There were also several women, some carrying children in their arms or on their shoulders. The sound of singing was mixed with applause, talking, shouting, laughing, and wailing. The spectacle captivated her and her black eyes sparkled with enchantment. A sweet, pearly smile played over her normally expressionless lips. She stood erect, wrapped in a cloak which allowed only her bronze face, the lower part of her legs, and some stray locks of her black hair to be seen. Her heart danced to the beat of the music, her blood surged hot and fast, and she was almost overcome with excitement. The man who recited the monologues made her shriek with childish delight; even the hostility she felt for the dancing girl did not spoil her excitement.

  She stood completely engrossed in the entertainment, quite unaware that it was growing dark. Suddenly a compulsion seized her and forced her to look over her left shoulder.

  She turned from the reciter and moved her head until her eyes met those of a man staring at her with insolent intensity. Her eyes rested on his and then quickly turned back to the stage. However, she could no longer recapture her earlier interest. She was overcome by an intense desire to look toward the left once again. Confusion and panic gripped her as his eyes pierced her with that same shameless insolence; at the same time they seemed to smile at her in a curious way. She could not bear to look at him. Instead she turned her attention to the stage in angry exasperation. It was his odd smile that infuriated her, for it seemed to express both a smug self-confidence and a challenging defiance. She could feel her temper rising, and she longed to dig her fingernails into something, into his neck, for example. She decided to ignore him, although she hated giving up so easily, especially when she still felt his rude eyes on her. Now her good mood was gone and in its place her fiery temper had arisen.

  The man seemed thoroughly pleased with himself. Now she saw him making his way toward the stage, to a spot in the direct line of her vision. No doubt he deliberately intended to block her view. He stood still, his back toward her. He was tall and lean, with broad shoulders, his hair long, and his head bare. He wore a suit of a greenish color. His tidy appearance and European dress made him seem oddly out of place in the crowd. She was now consumed with curiosity. This man was obviously well-to-do and what could he be doing in Midaq Alley?

  Now he looked backward again and stared straight at her. His face was lean and elongated, his eyes almond-shaped and his eyebrows thick. His eyes reflected both cunning and boldness. Not content with his previous examination, his gaze now traveled from her worn slippers up to her hair. She stood motionless, waiting for his face to reveal their impression. Their eyes met and again his gleamed with that insolent look of confidence and victory. Her blood boiled. She wanted to humiliate him with loud curses in front of the whole crowd. Each time she felt this impulse she repressed it. Quite overcome with emotion, she stepped from the stone and fled toward the alley. The moment she passed through it and crossed the threshold of the house, she felt an urge to go back. However, the insolent image of him returned, and she abandoned the urge.

  She climbed the stairs, filled with self-reproach for not teaching him manners. She went to her bedroom, removed her cloak, and peered at the street through the closed shutters. There he was, standing at the entrance to the alley. He was looking beseechingly at each of the windows overlooking the alley.

  She stood there delighted at his obvious confusion and wondering why she had been so outraged. It was obvious that he was educated, middle-class, and totally different from his predecessors. Moreover, she must have definitely attracted him. As for that challenging look in his eyes, what a splendid battle it invited. Why should he feel this boundless self-confidence? Did he consider himself some sort of hero or prince? Meanwhile, he showed signs of giving up his search for her. She hesitated and then, turning the catch, she opened the window a bit, carefully standing behind it as though watching the celebration in progress. He stood with his back to the alley and she was sure he would renew his search. And so he did; he peered from window to window until he noticed the gap in hers. His face lighted up and he stood like a statue. Suddenly that smile was there and his whole appearance took on an even stronger look of arrogance and conceit. She realized that by allowing herself to be seen, she had committed an irretrievable blunder. Now he moved up the alley with such quick determination that she was afraid he would enter her house.

  Instead he turned into Kirsha’s café, where he sat between Kirsha and Sheikh Darwish, the very spot where Abbas used to watch her shadowy form behind the shutters. Hamida remained behind the window, still watching the stage, although her mind was far from what was taking place on it. She felt his gaze on her like a powerful searchlight.

  The man remained in his seat in the café until the political rally finished, and she closed her window. For as long as she lived, Hamida was never to forget this night.

  From that evening on, he came regularly to Midaq Alley. He would come in the late afternoon, sit smoking a water pipe and sipping tea. His sudden appearance and his air of respectable tidiness caused much surprise in the café, but eventually the regulars’ astonishment diminshed as they grew accustomed to him. After all, there was nothing unusual
in his frequenting a café that was open to any passerby. Nevertheless, he annoyed Kirsha by always settling his bill with large notes, sometimes as much as a whole pound. He delighted the waiter Sanker by giving him tips greater than he had ever received.

  Hamida watched his daily coming and going, her eyes and heart filled with excitement and anticipation. At first, she refrained from her usual walk, because of her shabby clothing. It annoyed her that her usually fearless character was now forced into confinement and retreat by a total stranger. She was fascinated by the bank notes the man held out to Sanker, and quite naturally they made a strong impression on her. Money might be a dead tongue in other places, but in Midaq Alley it was very much a live language.

  Although the stranger was careful to conceal his reason for frequenting the café, he did not hesitate to glance up at her window. When his mouth touched the water pipe he puffed his lips slightly. He would then send the smoke high into the air, as though dispatching a kiss to her behind the window. She watched this with mixed emotions of pleasure, outrage, and flattery.

  She told herself that she should go for her usual walk, and if he approached her—and she knew he would—she would fling at him all the insults she could think of, and shatter his smug self-confidence. She would attack him so viciously that he would never forget her as long as he lived. This was the very least he deserved for his conceit and impudence. To hell with him! What made him think he could treat her like a common streetwalker? No humiliation was too much for him. She longed to go now and publicly insult him before the whole café. But oh, if she only had a nice cloak.

  He entered her life at a time when she was overcome with despair. Salim Alwan had collapsed near death after giving her a day and a half of hope for the life she had always wanted, and now this had happened, after she had banished Abbas from her dreams. Because she now knew there was no hope of marrying Alwan, she renewed her engagement to the barber, even though she felt only scorn for him.