Midaq Alley

  She knew from the first day what was expected of her. Her instinctive reaction was to rebel. This she had done, not in the hope of breaking her lover’s iron will, but simply for the love of the consequent battle. When eventually she gave way to the eloquence of Ibrahim Faraj, it was because she wished to do so. Hamida had entered into her new life with no regrets. She had justified her lover’s comment that she was a “whore by instinct.” Her natural talents made a stunning display; indeed, in a short time she had thoroughly mastered the principles of makeup and dress, even though at first everyone made fun of her vulgar taste. She had now learned Oriental and Western dancing, and she also showed a quick ear for learning the sexual principles of the English language. It was not surprising that she had become so successful. She was a favorite of the soldiers and her savings were proof of her popularity.

  Hamida had never known the life of a simple respectable girl. She had no happy memories of the past and was now quite engrossed in the enjoyable present. Her case was different from that of the majority of the other girls, who had been forced by necessity or circumstances into their present life and were often tormented by remorse. Hamida’s dreams of clothes, jewelry, money, and men were now fulfilled and she enjoyed all the power and authority they gave her.

  One day she recalled how miserable she had been the first time when Ibrahim Faraj said he did not want to marry her. She had asked herself if she really wanted to marry him. The answer, in the negative, had come immediately. Marriage would have confined her to the home, exhausting her with the duties of a wife, housekeeper, and mother; all those tasks she knew she was not created for. She now saw how farsighted he had been.

  Despite this, Hamida still felt strangely restless and dissatisfied. Not entirely ruled by her sexual instincts, she longed for emotional power. It was perhaps because she knew she had not achieved control over her lover that her attachment to him increased, along with her feeling of resentment and disillusion.

  This, then, was her state of mind as she stood before the mirror. Suddenly she saw his reflection as he hurried toward her; his face wore the look of a merchant who was just about to engage in a profitable transaction. He no longer bore the tender look of a man pleased with his new conquest. It was true he had encountered no resistance to the seduction. Many times since then she recalled that for a full fortnight she was saturated in what she believed to be his full capacity for love. Then his commercial instincts overcame her lover and he gradually revealed himself as the sex merchant he was.

  He himself had never known love, and it seemed strange to the romantically inclined girl that his whole life should be built on this sentiment. Whenever a new girl fell into his net, he played the part of the ardent lover—until she succumbed; after that he continued to court her for a short time. From then on he had made sure of his influence by making her dependent upon him emotionally and financially; often he even threatened to expose her to the police. When his mission was accomplished he dropped his role of lover for that of the flesh merchant.

  Hamida concluded that his sudden indifference to her was the result of his constantly being surrounded by girls eager for his attention. She was obsessed with mixed feelings of love, hostility, and suspicion as she stood looking at his reflection in the mirror.

  To give the impression that he was in a hurry, Ibrahim Faraj said quickly, “Have you finished, my darling?”

  She determined to show her disapproval of his preoccupation with her trade by ignoring him. She sadly recalled those days and nights when he spoke only of his love and admiration for her. Now he spoke only of the work and profit. It was this work, together with the tyranny of her own emotions, which now prevented her emancipation. She no longer had that freedom for which she had risked her whole life.

  Hamida only felt a sense of powerful independence when she was soliciting on the streets or in a tavern. The rest of the time she was tortured by a sense of imprisonment and humiliation. If only she were sure of his affection, if only he knew the humiliation of loving her, then she could feel victorious. Hostility toward him was her only escape from her predicament.

  Faraj was aware of her animosity, but he hoped she would become accustomed to his coldness, so that she would offer a minimum of resistance to the separation he planned. He thought it best to move slowly before delivering the decisive blow.

  “Come, my darling, time is money.” His tone was gentle but businesslike.

  “When will you stop using those vulgar terms?” she asked, turning suddenly toward him.

  “When will you, my darling, stop talking nonsense?”

  “So now you think you can talk to me that way?” she shrieked.

  Putting on a bored expression, he answered, “That’s right…Are we off on that old subject again? Must I say ‘I love you’ every time we meet? Can’t what we feel be love without interfering with our work by talking about it constantly? I wish your brains were as sharp as your tongue and that you would dedicate your life, as I do mine, to our work and put it before everything else.”

  She stood listening, her face pale, to his ice-cold words, without a trace of feeling. This was merely a repetition of what she had now heard countless times from him. She recalled how cleverly he had planned all this by first criticizing her. One day he had examined her hands and said, “Why don’t you take better care of your hands; let your nails grow and put polish on them. Your hands are a weak point, you know.”

  On another occasion he said after a stormy quarrel, “Be careful. You have a serious flaw I’ve not noticed before—your voice, my darling. Scream from your mouth, not from your larynx. It’s a most ugly sound. It must be worked on. Those traces of Midaq Alley must be removed. Remember, your clients now come to see you in the best section of Cairo.”

  These words had hurt and humiliated her more than any she had ever heard in her life. Whenever she brought up the matter of her love for him he would avoid a discussion and soothe her with flattery about her work. Recently he had even dropped his false show of affection, and once he told her, “Get to work, my dear, ‘love’ is only a silly word.”

  Damn him! Indignantly she commented, “You have no right to talk like that to me. You know perfectly well that I work hard and make more money for you than all the other girls put together. So just remember that! I’m fed up with all your cunning. Just tell me honestly whether you still love me or not.”

  Now, he told himself, was the time to tell her. His almond-shaped eyes looked intently into her face as his mind worked furiously. He decided to choose peace for the time being. Doing his best to humor her, he said, “We’re on that same old subject, as usual…”

  “Tell me,” exploded Hamida. “Do you think I’ll die of grief if you deny me your love?”

  The time was not right. If she asked him that question when she returned from work in the early morning, he would have more room to maneuver. Now if he told her the truth, he would risk losing the entire profits for the day.

  “I love you, darling…” he said softly, moving toward her.

  How filthy it sounded coming from him now. Utter mortification swept over her and she felt she would never be able to stop despising herself, even if he were to guarantee to come back to her arms. For a fleeting moment she felt that his love was something worth sacrificing the world for, but a feeling of spitefulness welled up quickly within her and she stepped a few paces nearer to him, her eyes glinting like the diamond brooch pinned to her turban. Determined to carry on the argument to its ultimate end, Hamida went on: “So you really love me? Then let’s get married!”

  His eyes revealed his astonishment, and he looked at her only half believing what he had heard. “Would marriage change our situation?” he asked in reply.

  “Yes, it would. Let’s get married and get out of this kind of life.”

  His patience quite exhausted, he made a firm decision. He would deal with this matter with the candor and severity it deserved and so carry out what had long been running through his mind
, even though it would probably mean the loss of the night’s profits. He broke into loud, sarcastic laughter and said,

  “A brilliant idea, my darling! We’ll get married and live like lords. Ibrahim Faraj and His Wife and Children, Incorporated! But really, what is marriage? I seem to have forgotten all about it, just like the other social graces. Let me think for a moment…Marriage…is a very serious thing, I seem to remember. It unites a man and a woman. There is a marriage official, a religious contract, and all kinds of rites…When did you learn that, Faraj? In the Qur’an or in school? I’ve forgotten where. Tell me, my darling, are people still getting married?”

  Hamida was now trembling from head to foot. Suddenly she could restrain herself no longer. In one swift leap she reached for his throat. He anticipated her sudden action and met her attack with complete calm. Seizing her arms, he forced them apart and then released her, the mocking smile still on his lips. Hamida raised her arm and slapped his face with all her strength. His smile faded, and an evil, threatening look came into his eyes. She stared back at him challengingly, impatiently waiting for the battle to begin. He was well aware that to engage in physical combat with her would only mean a strengthening of the ties he wished to sever and so he withdrew without defending himself. He retreated a step, turned his back on her, and walked off, saying, “Please come to work, my darling.”

  Hamida refused to believe her eyes as she stood there looking at the door through which he had disappeared. She knew what his retreat meant. She was suddenly consumed with an irresistible urge to kill this man.

  Hamida felt she must leave that house at once. Walking heavily toward the door, she realized that she was leaving that room, their room, for the last time. She turned around as though to say farewell to it. Suddenly she felt as though she would faint. Oh God! How had everything come to an end so quickly? This mirror, how often she had looked into it so full of happiness. And the bed, which harbored so much lovemaking and so many dreams. That settee where she had often been in his arms, listening to his advice amidst caresses. There was the dressing table with a picture of them both in evening dress. In one swift dash she fled from the room.

  The hot air of the street almost scorched her and she could scarcely breathe. She walked along saying to herself, “I’ll murder him!” That would be a consolation, if she didn’t have to pay for his life with her own. She knew that her love would always remain a scar deep within her, but she was not the sort of woman love could actually destroy. This thought cheered her a little and she waved to the driver of a carriage she saw approaching. She climbed in, feeling an urgent need for more air and a rest.

  She told the driver, “Drive first to Opera Square and then come back along Fuad I Street. And drive carefully, please.”

  She sat in the middle of the seat, leaning back comfortably with her legs crossed. Her short silk dress revealed a portion of leg above her knees. She lit a cigarette and puffed it nervously, unaware of passersby staring at the flesh she revealed.

  Hamida sat completely engrossed in her thoughts. A variety of future hopes and dreams came to comfort her, but it never occurred to her that she might discover a new love to make her forget this old one.

  After some time she turned her attention to the road. The open carriage was now circling around in front of the Opera House and in the distance she caught sight of Queen Farida Square. Her thoughts flew from there up to the Mousky, New Street, Sanadiqiya Street, and Midaq Alley, and shadowy figures of men and women from the past flitted before her eyes. She wondered whether any of them would recognize her if they were to see her now. Would they see Hamida underneath Titi? Why should she care anyway? After all, she had no father or mother of her own. She finished the cigarette and threw it from the carriage.

  Settling back, she enjoyed the ride until the carriage returned to Sharif Street and made its way toward the tavern where she worked. Just then she heard a shrill cry rend the air: “Hamida!” She turned in terror and saw Abbas, the barber, only an arm’s length away from her.

  “Abbas!”

  The young man was panting furiously because he had run behind the carriage all the way from Opera Square. He had dashed blindly, bumping into people, careless of the shoves, curses, and pushes directed at him. He had been walking with Hussain Kirsha, wandering aimlessly after leaving Vita’s bar until they reached Opera Square. It was here Hussain saw the carriage with the beautiful woman inside.

  He did not recognize Hamida. He had instinctively raised his eyebrows in approval of the passenger. In fact, he drew his friend’s attention to her. Abbas looked up at the approaching carriage and fixed his gaze on the young woman in it. She seemed lost in thought. She looked somehow familiar. So faintly familiar that his heart, more than his eyes, was the detector. In spite of his slightly drunken state he shouted, “Stop!”

  The carriage now turned and headed for Ezbekiya Gardens. Abbas dashed off in mad pursuit, leaving his friend shouting after him. Heavy traffic at the head of Fuad I Street delayed him, but he kept his eyes fixed on the carriage. He set off again running as fast as he could, his strength failing. Finally he caught up with her just as she was about to enter the tavern, and called out her name with a piercing shriek. She turned toward him and weakly gasped out his name. Instantly his doubts vanished. He stood before her gasping for breath, not trusting the image before his eyes. She too was obviously overcome with what she saw. Suddenly she seemed conscious of the many people watching them. She controlled herself and, signaling him, she walked quickly off toward a small street next to the tavern. Abbas followed her into the first door on the right, a flower shop. The proprietress greeted her, recognizing Hamida as a frequent customer. She returned the greeting and accompanied Abbas to the back of the shop. The shopkeeper sensed she wanted to be alone with her companion and seated herself discreetly behind a flower display, as though she were alone in the shop.

  They now stood face to face. Abbas trembled with excitement and total bewilderment. What had drawn him to his mortal enemy? What could he hope for from his meeting? Why had he not let her pass unnoticed? Suddenly he had no opinion, no plans. While he was running, memories of Hamida’s desertion barely kept his mind on the road. He simply ran out of blind instinct until he finally gasped out her name. From then on he was like a sleepwalker, following her into the shop.

  He could feel himself slowly returning to consciousness as he examined this strange woman before him. In vain he tried to find a trace of the girl he had once loved. Abbas was not so simple that he failed to grasp the truth of what he saw before him. Then, too, the rumors in Midaq Alley had forced him to expect the worst. However, nothing was as shattering as what he now saw. He was overcome with a sense of the futility of life. However, strangely enough, he felt no inclination to harm her—or even to humiliate her.

  Hamida looked at him with a childlike confusion. His presence aroused no feelings of affection or regret. She felt only contempt and animosity and silently cursed the bad luck that had thrown him in her path.

  The silence was beginning to strain their nerves, and now Abbas, unable to bear it, spoke softly: “Hamida! Is it really you? Oh God, how can I believe my eyes? How could you have left your home and your mother and ended up like this?”

  Embarrassed, but not ashamed, Hamida answered, “Don’t ask me about anything. I’ve nothing to say to you. It’s all the will of God. It can’t be changed.”

  Her embarrassment and control had the opposite effect from what she expected. Now both his anger and his hatred were aroused. His voice rose in a bellow that filled the shop: “You filthy liar…Some degenerate like yourself seduced you and you ran off with him! The alley is full of filthy rumors about you, you know. And I can see them all reflected in your hard face and your cheap getup…”

  His sudden anger ignited her quick temper, and now all embarrassment and fear dissolved within her. All this added to the day’s agonies and now her face turned pale.

  “Shut up!” she shouted. “Don’t talk lik
e a maniac! Do you think you scare me? What do you want from me, you nothing? You have no claim on me. Get out of my sight.”

  Before she finished his anger had subsided. He stared at her in confusion and in a trembling voice he muttered, “How can you say such things? Aren’t you…weren’t you once my fiancée?”

  She smiled and shrugged impatiently. “Why bring up the past? It’s over and done with.”

  “Yes, it’s over and done with, but I want to know what went wrong between us. Didn’t you accept my proposal? Didn’t I go away for the sake of our future happiness together?”

  She now felt no embarrassment or uneasiness with him and only asked herself impatiently, “When will he drop the subject? When will he understand? When will he go away?” She replied in a bored tone, “I wanted one thing, and the fates wanted another…”

  “What have you done to yourself? Why have you chosen this filthy life? What has blinded you? What pig abducted you from a pure life and dumped you in the sewers of prostitution?”

  “This is my life,” she said with firm impatience. “It’s over between us and that’s all there is to it. We’re complete strangers now. I can’t go back and you can’t change me. Be careful what you say to me, because I’m in no condition to forgive you. I may be weak, but I’m simply fleeing from my horrible destiny. Forget me, hate me if you want to, but leave me in peace.”

  This was indeed a total stranger. Where was the Hamida he had loved and who had loved him? Had she ever loved him? What about their kiss on the staircase? When they said farewell, had she not promised to pray to the Lord Hussain to look after him and answer their prayers? Who was this girl? Did she feel no regret? No trace of the old affection? A sigh of impotent despair weighted his words as he spoke: “The more I listen to you, the less I understand you. I came back yesterday from Tell el-Kebir. I couldn’t believe what they told me about you. Do you know what brought me back?” He showed her the box containing the necklace. “I bought this for you. I planned to marry you before I went back…”