Midaq Alley

  —

  Darkness now completely enveloped the street and the only light came from lanterns in the café; they drew a square of light which was reflected on the ground and extended up the walls of the office. The lights which had shone dimly from behind the window shutters of the street’s two houses disappeared one after the other. The men in the café were all playing dominoes or cards, except for Sheikh Darwish, quite lost in his usual stupor, and Uncle Kamil, who had laid his head on his chest and sunk into a deep sleep. Sanker, the waiter, was as busy as ever, bringing orders and putting money tokens into the till. Kirsha, the café owner, followed him with his heavy eyes, enjoying the numbing stream from hashish flowing into his stomach and giving himself over to its delicious power. It was very late now and Radwan Hussainy left the café for his house. Dr. Booshy soon left for his flat on the first floor of the alley’s second house. The next to leave were Abbas and Uncle Kamil.

  The other seats began to empty too, until at midnight only three remained in the café; Kirsha, the young waiter Sanker, and Sheikh Darwish. Then another group of men arrived, all peers of the café owner, Kirsha, and they went with him up to a wooden hut built on the roof of Radwan Hussainy’s house, where they sat around a lighted brazier. There they started a small party which would not end until the dawn gave enough light to distinguish “a black from a white thread.”

  Sanker the waiter now spoke gently to Sheikh Darwish, telling him that midnight had come. The old man looked up at the sound of his voice, took off his spectacles quietly, and polished them with a corner of his shirt. He then put them on again, straightened his necktie, and rose, placing his feet in his wooden clogs. He left the café without uttering a word, shattering the silence with the noise of his clogs striking the stones of the street. All was silent outside, the darkness heavy and the streets and alleys somber and empty. He let his feet lead him where they wished, for he had no home and no purpose. He walked off into the darkness.

  —

  In his youth, Sheikh Darwish had been a teacher in one of the religious foundation schools. He had, moreover, been a teacher of the English language. He had been known for his energetic diligence; and fortune, too, had been good to him and he had been the head of a happy family. When the religious foundation schools merged with the Ministry of Education, his position changed, as did that of many of his associates, who, like him, lacked high qualifications. He became a clerk in the Ministry of Religious Endowments and went down from the sixth to the eighth grade, his salary adjusted accordingly. It was only natural that he was hurt by what happened to him and he began a continuous rebellion.

  Occasionally he rebelled openly; at other times he felt defeated and concealed his rebellion. He had tried every method, issuing petitions, appealing to his superiors, and complaining about his poverty and the size of his family. All without success. At last he gave way to despair, his nerves almost in shreds. His case became famous in his ministry and he became notorious as a rebel, always complaining, extremely stubborn and obstinate, and very quicktempered. Scarcely a day went by without his becoming involved in an argument or quarrel.

  He was renowned for his self-assertive manner and defiance toward everyone. When a dispute flared up between him and another person, as often happened, he would address his adversary in English. If the man should complain at his using a foreign language unnecessarily, Darwish would shout in great scorn, “Go off and learn something before you argue with me!”

  Eventually reports of his bad disposition reached his superiors, but they were always lenient out of sympathy and out of fear of his temper. Therefore he was able to carry on without severe consequences, except for a few warnings and the loss of one or two days’ salary. As time went on, however, his blustering egotism increased. One day he decided to write all his official correspondence in English. His explanation for this was that he was an artistic man, not like the other clerks.

  He now neglected his work to such a degree that his supervisor decided to deal with him in a firm and severe manner. Fate, however, was quicker than the supervisor, for he insisted on seeing the Deputy Minister himself. Darwish “Effendi,” as he was then still known, entered the Deputy Minister’s office looking very serious and respectful, greeted him in a man-to-man fashion, and addressed him in a manner filled with confidence and self assurance.

  “God has chosen his man, sir!”

  The Deputy Minister asked him to explain what he meant and Darwish continued respectfully and with dignity: “I am a messenger to you from God and I bring you a new mission!”

  Thus his career at the ministry ended, as did his connections with friends and relations who had been close to him. He deserted his family, friends, and acquaintances and wandered off into the world of God, as it is called. The only memento he now had of his past life were his gold-rimmed spectacles. He had passed into his new life without a friend, money, or a home. His life showed that some people can live in this world, festering as it is with its bitter troubles, without either home, money, or friends, and know neither worry, grief, nor need. Never for a day did he hunger; he never went without clothing, nor was he ever driven away.

  He had moved into a state of peace, contentment, and beatitude such as he had never known before. Even though he had lost his house, the whole world had become his home. Even though he had lost his salary, gone, too, was his dependence on money. Though he had lost his own family and friends, everyone he met became his family. If his gown wore out, someone would bring him a new one; if his tie became ragged, someone brought him a new one of those too. Everywhere he went people made him welcome and even Kirsha, despite his apparent absentmindedness, would miss him if he should be absent for a day from the café. He could not, despite what simple folk said, perform miracles or predict the future. He was either distracted and silent or extremely talkative without ever knowing particularly what he was saying.

  He was loved and honored, and everyone always welcomed his presence among them as a good sign and said that he was a fine and holy man of God, to whom revelation came in two languages, Arabic and English!

  She gazed into the mirror with uncritical eyes, or rather with eyes gleaming with delight. The mirror reflected a long, thin face; cosmetics had indeed done wonders with her eyelashes, eyebrows, eyes, and lips. She turned her face to the right and to the left while her fingers stroked the plaits of her hair. She muttered almost inaudibly, “Not bad. Very nice. Yes, by God, very nice!” The fact was, her face had gazed upon the world for close to fifty years and nature never leaves a face unharmed for over half a century. The body was slim, even thin, as the women of the alley described it, and her bust meager, although her nice dress hid it from sight.

  This lady was Mrs. Saniya Afify, the owner of the alley’s second house, on the first floor of which lived Dr. Booshy. She had got herself ready on this particular day to visit the middle flat of her house, where Umm Hamida lived. She was not accustomed to visiting tenants and, indeed, probably the only times she had been in the flat were at the beginning of each month to collect the rent. Now, however, a new and deep impulse made visiting Hamida’s mother an absolute necessity.

  She walked out of the flat and down the stairs, mumbling hopefully to herself, “O God, please fulfill my wishes.”

  She knocked on the door with a perspiring hand and Hamida opened it. The girl gave her an insincere smile of welcome, led her into the sitting room, and then left to call her mother.

  The room was small, with two old-fashioned sofas facing one another and a battered table on which rested an ashtray. On the floor was a straw mat. The visitor did not wait long; soon Hamida’s mother rushed in, having just changed from her housecoat. The two women greeted one another warmly, exchanged kisses and sat down. Umm Hamida said, “Welcome, welcome. Why, it’s as though the Prophet himself had come to visit us, Mrs. Afify!”

  Umm Hamida was a well-built woman of medium stature, in her mid-sixties. Still fit and healthy, with protruding eyes and pockmarked cheeks, sh
e had a rough and resonant voice. When she talked she almost screamed. Indeed her voice was her most effective weapon in the frequent quarrels between her and her neighbors. She was, of course, not at all pleased with the visit, as any visit from the landlady could have unfortunate consequences and might even spell real trouble. However, she had accustomed herself to be ready at all times for any eventuality, whether good or bad, and she was able to deal with both with complete equanimity.

  By profession she was a bath attendant and a marriage broker, and was both shrewd and talkative. To be sure, her tongue was hardly ever still and she scarcely missed a single report or scandal concerning anyone or any house in the neighborhood. She was both a herald and a historian of bad news of all kinds and a veritable encyclopedia of woes.

  As usual, she went to great pains to make her visitor feel welcome, praising her extravagantly. She gave her a résumé of the news of the alley and the surroundings. Had she heard of Kirsha’s new scandal? It was just like the previous ones and the news got back to his wife, who had a fight with him and tore his cloak. Husniya, the bakeress, the day before struck her husband so hard that blood had flowed from his forehead. Radwan Hussainy, that good and pious man, had rebuked his wife most strongly, and why would he treat her in this way, the good man that he was, if she were not a vile and wicked hussy! Dr. Booshy had interfered with a little girl in the shelter in the last air raid and some upright citizen had struck him for it. The wife of Mawardy, the wood merchant, had run off with her servant, and her father had informed the police. Tabuna Kafawy was secretly selling bread made of pure flour—and so on.

  Mrs. Afify listened with disinterest to all this, her mind busy with the matter about which she had come. She was determined, no matter what the effort cost her, to broach the subject which had been simmering within her for so long. She let the woman talk on until the right opportunity came, as it did when Umm Hamida asked, “And how are you, Mrs. Afify?”

  She frowned a little and replied, “The truth is that I am tired out, Umm Hamida!”

  The older woman arched her eyebrows as though really troubled. “Tired? May God lighten your load!”

  Mrs. Afify made no reply while Hamida, her tenant’s daughter, who had just come into the room, placed a tray with coffee on the table and left again. Then she said indignantly, “Yes, I am tired, Umm Hamida. Don’t you think it’s exhausting, collecting the rent from the shops? Imagine a woman like me standing in front of strange men asking for rent…”

  Umm Hamida’s heart had missed a beat at the mention of the rents, but she said sympathetically, “Yes, you are quite right. May God come to your aid.”

  Umm Hamida wondered to herself why Mrs. Afify should keep making these complaints. This was the second or third time her landlady had visited her recently and it was still not the beginning of the month. All at once an astonishing idea struck her. Could the visits be connected with her own profession? In such matters her powers of deduction were unparalleled and she determined to quietly plumb by degrees the depths of her visitor. Maliciously, she said, “This is one of the evils of being alone. You are a woman all by yourself, Mrs. Afify. In your house you are alone, in the street alone, and in your bed you are alone. Isn’t loneliness terrible?”

  Mrs. Afify was pleased with the woman’s comments, which corresponded exactly with her own thoughts. Hiding her delight, she replied, “What can I do? My relatives all have families and I am only happy in my own home. Yet thanks be to God for making me quite independent.”

  Umm Hamida watched her cunningly and then said, coming to the point, “Thanks be to God a thousand times; but tell me honestly, why have you remained single so long?”

  Mrs. Afify’s heart beat faster and she found herself just where she wanted to be. Nevertheless, she sighed and murmured in feigned disgust, “No more of the bitterness of marriage for me!”

  In her youth, Mrs. Afify had married the owner of a perfume shop, but it was an unsuccessful marriage. Her husband treated her badly, made her life miserable, and spent all her savings. He left her a widow ten years ago and she had remained single all this time because, as she said, she had no taste for married life.

  In saying this, she was not merely trying to hide the indifference of the other sex toward her. She had genuinely disliked married life and was delighted when she regained her peace and freedom. For a long time now, she had remained averse to marriage and happy in her freedom. Gradually, however, she forgot this prejudice and would not have hesitated had anyone asked for her hand in marriage. From time to time she lived in hope, but as the years passed, she had begun to despair. She refused to allow herself to entertain further false hopes, and she had accustomed herself to satisfaction with her life just as it was.

  Her pastimes were not, fortunately, those that would lead to criticism of a widowed lady like herself. Her only passions were a fondness for coffee, cigarettes, and hoarding bank notes. She kept her new banknotes in a small ivory casket hidden in the depths of her clothes closet and arranged them in packages of fives and tens, delighting herself by looking at them, counting and rearranging them. Because the bank notes, unlike metal coins, made no noise, the money was safe and none of the alley’s clever people, despite their great sensitivity, knew of its existence. She had always inclined toward avarice and was one of the earliest contributors to the savings bank.

  Mrs. Afify found great consolation in her financial activities, seeing in them a compensation for her unmarried state. She would tell herself that any husband would be likely to plunder her funds, just as her dead husband had done, and that he would squander in the twinkle of an eye the fruits of long years of savings. Despite all this, the idea of marriage had gradually taken root and all her excuses and fears had been wiped out.

  It was really Umm Hamida who was responsible for this strange change in her, whether intentionally or not. She had told her how she had arranged a marriage for an elderly widow and she had begun thinking the same might be possible for her. Very soon the idea had quite taken possession of her and she now felt compelled to follow it through. She had once thought that she had forgotten marriage and, all of a sudden, marriage was her ambition and hope and no amount of money, coffee, cigarettes, or new bank notes could dissuade her from the idea. Mrs. Afify had begun wondering despondently how she had wasted her life in vain and how she had spent ten years, until she was now approaching fifty, quite alone. She decided that it had been simple madness, laid the responsibility on her dead husband, and determined that she would be unfaithful to his memory as soon as possible.

  The matchmaker listened with shrewd contempt to her fake disgust at the idea of marriage and told herself, “I can see through your cunning, Mrs. Afify.” She reproached her visitor, “Don’t exaggerate, Mrs. Afify. Even if your luck was bad the first time, there are very many happy marriages indeed.”

  Replacing her coffee cup on the tray and thanking her hostess, Mrs. Afify replied, “No sensible person would persist in trying her luck if it looked bad.”

  Umm Hamida disagreed. “What talk is this for a sensible woman like yourself? You have had enough, quite enough, of being alone.”

  The widow struck her meager breast with the palm of her left hand and said in mock disbelief, “What? Do you want people to think that I am mad?”

  “What people do you mean? Women older than yourself get married every day.”

  Mrs. Afify was annoyed at this phrase “older than yourself” and she said quietly, “I am not as old as you may think, God curse the idea!”

  “I didn’t mean that, Mrs. Afify and I am sure you are still within the bounds of youth. I thought it might be some excuse behind which you were hiding yourself.”

  The lady was pleased at this, but she was still determined to act the part of someone who might be ready to accept marriage but who had no clear intention or desire for marriage. After a little hesitation, she asked, “Wouldn’t it be wrong for me to get married now, after this long period of being unmarried?”

&n
bsp; Umm Hamida said to herself, “Then why, woman, did you come to talk to me?” But out loud she said, “Why should it be wrong to do something both lawful and right? You are a respectable and sensible person, as everyone knows. Why, my dear, ‘marriage is one half of religion.’ Our Lord in His wisdom made it lawful and it was prescribed by the Prophet, peace and blessings upon Him!”

  Mrs. Afify echoed piously, “Peace and blessings upon him!”

  “Why not, my dear? Both God and the Arab Prophet love the faithful!”

  Mrs. Afify’s face had grown red beneath its covering of rouge and her heart was filled with delight. She took out two cigarettes from her case and said, “Who would want to marry me?”

  Umm Hamida bent her forefinger and drew it to her forehead in a gesture of disbelief, saying, “A thousand and one men!”

  The lady laughed heartily and said, “One man will suffice!”

  Umm Hamida now declared with conviction, “Deep down, all men like marriage and it’s only married men who complain about marriage. What a lot of bachelors there are who want to get married. I have only to say to one of them, ‘I have a bride for you,’ and a look of interest comes into their eyes as they smile and ask in unconcealable passion, ‘Really—who is it—who?’ Men, even though they might be completely senile, always want women and this is part of the wisdom of our Lord.”

  Mrs. Afify nodded her head happily in agreement and commented, “Glory be to His wisdom!”

  “Yes, Mrs. Afify, it was for that God created the world. It was within His power to fill it with men alone or women alone but He created male and female and gave us the intelligence to understand His wish. There is no avoiding marriage.”

  Mrs. Saniya Afify smiled again. “Your words are as sweet as sugar, Umm Hamida.”

  “May God sweeten your whole life and delight your heart with a perfect marriage.”

  Now thoroughly encouraged, the visitor agreed. “If God wishes and with your help.”