This suggestion pleased him. Unlike more prudent merchants, he was much impressed by social status and, in his simplicity, he wondered how he should set about acquiring the title. The matter became the concern of this entire ambitious family, and though they encouraged him they differed in the method to be pursued. One or two suggested he dabble in politics. The trouble was that Salim Alwan scarcely understood anything apart from the world of commerce, and his opinions and beliefs were hardly above those of Abbas, the barber, for example. People like him would humbly prostrate themselves before the tomb of Hussain or pay homage to Sheikh Darwish. In short he was essentially ignorant. However, in many cases, politics demand little more than this.
He would have considered this seriously, if his attorney son, Arif Salim Alwan, had not opposed the idea and said warningly, “Politics would surely ruin us and the business. You would find yourself spending twice as much on the party as what you spend on yourself, your family, and your business. Supposing you are put up for Parliament. As the price for an insecure seat the elections will swallow up thousands of pounds. Is Parliament in our country anything other than a man with a diseased heart which is ready to stop beating at any moment? And then, what party will you choose? If you choose any party other than the Wafd your business reputation will suffer, and if you choose the Wafd, a Prime Minister like Sidgy Pasha will destroy your business and scatter it to the winds.”
Salim Alwan was very impressed by what his son said. He had faith in his educated sons, and his determination to put politics aside was reinforced by his ignorance and indifference to that world. His only political awareness was of a few names, and some affection or aversion for a few of these from the era of the nationalist hero Zaghlul. Some of his family advised him to contribute money to a charitable organization, and thus get his title of “Bey” as a reward. This suggestion displeased him, for his business instincts were opposed to spending or giving money away. None of this conflicted with his well-known generosity, for this was confined to himself and his household. However, he did not refuse point-blank. A title was still attractive to him and he continued to want one. Alwan had realized he would have to spend not less than five thousand pounds to get one. What then was he to do? He could not make up his mind, although he said no to his children. Despite this, he added the cost of his title to other inevitable expenses such as the business and the purchase of real estate. He was content to leave the whole matter to the future and whatever it might bring.
—
However important these concerns, they did not upset the serenity of a person’s life, and especially not that of a man engrossed in work all day and in satisfying his natural desires at night. The truth was that when work absorbed him, he was unable to think of anything else. He could, for example, be seated at his desk giving his entire attention to a Jewish broker, so that a stranger would have thought Alwan a close friend of the man. He was, in fact, a veritable crouching tiger, willing to cringe and fawn until he mastered his adversary, and woe to anyone he did master! Experience had taught him that this gentleman and others like him were enemies with whom one must be friendly. They were, as he put it, useful devils.
If he made a contract for tea, which was certain to bring a good profit, he would sit twisting his mustaches and belching whenever an unpleasant thought struck him. The visitor would try, after the tea contract, to persuade him to buy some real estate—he already knew of Alwan’s desire to do so—but the merchant had decided to postpone the matter until after the war and refused to listen to the broker. The visitor then would leave the office, satisfied with the one contract he had made.
At midday, it was Alwan’s custom to have lunch in his pleasant room that contained a couch for his subsequent afternoon siesta. His lunch generally consisted of vegetables, potatoes, and a bowl of husked green wheat. When he finished, he rested on his couch for an hour or two. During this time the activity in the company premises subsided and the whole alley became quieter too.
The bowl of husked grain had a story behind it, which the entire alley knew. It was both a food and a prescription which one of his senior employees prepared for him. For some time it had remained a secret between the two men, but, of course, no secret survived long in Midaq Alley. It consisted of a bowl of cooked green wheat, mixed with pieces of pigeon meat and ground nutmeg. He would have it for lunch, then drink tea every two hours afterward. Its magic effect began at night and lasted for two full hours of sheer delight. The preparation had long remained a secret between him, his employee, and Husniya, the bakeress. The alley people who saw it thought it a harmless lunch. One commented, “May it prove wholesome and bring a cure,” while others would mutter, “May it be full of poison, with God’s permission!”
One day curiosity possessed Husniya and she decided to try the preparation on her husband, Jaada, the baker. She scooped out a large portion of the food in Alwan’s dish and filled the empty space with plain green wheat. She was confident that Alwan had not noticed the substitution. Encouraged by the success of the experiment on her husband, she tried it again. However, Salim Alwan was not long in discovering what was happening. He could not help noticing the sudden change which had affected his nightly activities. At first he blamed the employee who prepared the dish, and when he denied it, he became suspicious of the bakeress and he easily learned of the theft. He called the bakeress and rebuked her. Furthermore he stopped sending his dish to her bakery; instead he sent it to the European bakery over on New Street.
The secret was now out and it spread until Umm Hamida knew of it. That was too much, of course, and soon all the inhabitants of the alley learned of it and, in the wink of an eye, they were all experimenting with it. At first Salim Alwan was angry when he heard his secret had spread, but he soon ceased to care. Although he had spent most of his life in the alley, he had never really belonged there. The truth was, he cared for none of them. In fact, the only two to whom he ever raised his hand in greeting were Radwan Hussainy and Sheikh Darwish.
For a time, the bowl of food almost became the staple diet of the whole alley, and had it not been for its costliness no one would have given it up. Kirsha, the café owner, Dr. Booshy, and even Radwan Hussainy tried it after verifying that it contained no ingredient prohibited by the sacred law. Salim Alwan ate it regularly. The truth was that he seemed to spend his whole life in a suspended state of excitement. Mornings he galloped to the office while his nights were devoid of the customary amusement for a man of his type. He frequented no café, club, or bar and had absolutely nothing except his wife. It was for this reason that he indulged in his marital pleasures in a most immoderate fashion.
—
He woke up in the early afternoon, performed the ritual washing, and said his prayers. Then he put on his gown and cloak and returned to his office, where he found his second cup of tea waiting for him. He sipped it slowly and with pleasure, belching so noisily that it produced an echo in the inner courtyard, and set about his afternoon with the same vigor as he had in the morning. However, from time to time he looked as though something were disturbing him. He would turn toward the alley and consult his great golden watch, while his nose twitched uncontrollably.
When the sunlight reached the top of the alley wall, he turned his sprung chair and faced the road. Heavy minutes passed during which his eyes remained on the road. Then his eyes gleamed and he pricked up his ears at the sound of slippers on the slanting flagstones. Hamida passed quickly in front of the office door. Alwan twisted his mustaches carefully and turned his chair back to his desk, a look of pleasure in his eyes, though he felt somewhat uneasy.
It was only at this time of day that he got a chance to see her, except for the occasional glance he stole at her window when he would venture out in front of his office, pretending to calm his nerves by walking a bit. He was naturally eager to preserve his honor and dignity. After all, he was Salim Alwan, whereas she was only a poor girl and the alley overflowed with sharp tongues and roving eyes. He stopped his
work and thoughtfully drummed the top of his desk with his forefinger. Yes, she was indeed poor and lowly, but unfortunately desire could not be denied, could it?
She was poor and humble, but what about her bronze-colored face, the look in her eyes, and her lovely slender body? All these were qualities which far outweighed mere class differences. What was the point of being proud? He quite frankly desired that pretty face, that body of sensuality and those beautiful buttocks which were able to excite even a pious old man. She was, in fact, more precious than all the merchandise from India.
He had known her since she was a little girl. Often she had come to his shop to buy mascara, cosmetics, and perfumes her mother needed. Alwan had seen her breasts develop from tiny bulges to medium size, and finally to their present protuberant form. He had observed her bottom while it was only a foundation, with no structure yet raised upon it. He had seen it become a slender rounded form, ripening to maturity, and now, at last, it was a dome of perfect femininity and most attractive.
Salim Alwan continued to nourish his admiration until at last it grew into an all-consuming desire. He acknowledged this and no longer attempted to deny his true feelings. He often said to himself, “If only she were a widow like Mrs. Saniya Afify.” Indeed if she were a widow like Mrs. Afify, he would have found a way long ago. However, since she was a virgin, the matter must be considered most carefully. Now he asked himself, as he had so often done in the past, what he could do to win her.
But in the back of his mind lingered thoughts of his wife and family. His wife was a worthy woman, possessed of all a man could desire as far as femininity, motherhood, tenderness, and household ability were concerned. In her youth she had been pretty and fertile, and he could not criticize her for anything. Apart from that, she came from a noble family, far above his own where ancestry and position were concerned. He had a sincere affection for her. In fact all he had against her was that her youth and vitality were gone and she could neither keep up with him nor bear his attentions. In comparison he seemed, with his extraordinary vitality, an eager youth unable to find in her the pleasures he yearned for.
The truth was that he did not know whether it was this that attracted him to Hamida, or whether it was his passion for her which made him more conscious of his wife’s inadequacies. Whatever the reason, he felt an irresistible urge for new blood. He finally said to himself, “What’s wrong with me? Why should I deprive myself of something made lawful by God?”
However, he was a respectable man and longed for people’s esteem. The thought that he might be the center of gossip horrified him. He agreed with the saying “Eat what you please, but wear what pleases others.” So it was that he ate his bowl of wheat, but as for Hamida…! Good heavens!
If she had been from a noble family, he would not have hesitated a moment to ask her hand. But how could Hamida become a fellow wife of his present wife, Mrs. Alwan? And how could Umm Hamida become his mother-in-law just as the late Mrs. Alifat had been? How on earth could Hamida become the wife of the father of Muhammad Salim Alwan, the judge, Arif Salim Alwan, the attorney, and Dr. Hassan Salim Alwan? There were other things, too, no less serious than these, which he must give due consideration. There would have to be a new household set up and new expenses; these would probably double his previous expenses. There would also be new relatives entitled to an inheritance. This would probably destroy his close family unity and would cause ripples of discontent across its calm surface.
For what, he asked himself, would he undergo all these difficulties? The desire of a fifty-year-old man, a husband and father, for a girl in her twenties! None of this escaped him, for he was not the sort of man to overlook consideration of anything concerned with money or the proper conduct of his life. He continued turning all this over in his mind, bewildered and irresolute. His desire had now become one more worry to plague his life. It formed part of the chain of his unsolved problems: the management and future of his business, whether or not to buy real estate and build apartments, and how to arrange for his title of “Bey.” This desire, however, was both more compelling and more inspiring than his other problems.
When he was left alone, his mind kept turning over all these problems, and he could think. But whenever Hamida appeared before him or when he saw her through her window, his mind could concentrate on one thing only…
Mrs. Kirsha, the café owner’s wife, was extremely worried. Kirsha had abandoned a much-loved habit and could only have done so for a serious reason: he was enjoying his nightly pleasures outside his own house. Having invited his usual associates to come to his room on the roof at midnight, he remained with them until dawn.
The woman tossed her unhappy memories over in her mind, and the pain which so embittered her life returned. What enticement could get him to spend the night outside his own house? Was it the same old reason? That filthy disease? The dissolute fellow would probably say that it was just a change to relieve his boredom or else that he had only moved off to a better spot for the winter season. These lying excuses, however, would not satisfy her. She knew that everyone else knew. For these reasons, then, she was extremely worried, and was firmly resolved to take decisive action, whatever its consequences.
Mrs. Kirsha was a strong woman, although approaching fifty, and she had lost none of her courage, as often happens. She was one of those alley women renowned for their tempers—like Husaniya, the bakeress, and Umm Hamida—and she was particularly famous for the furious rows she had with her husband concerning his dirty habits. She was also well known for her large, broad, snub nose.
She had been a fertile wife and had produced six daughters and one son, Hussain Kirsha. All her daughters were married and experiencing lives filled with troubles, even though they had refrained from divorce. A tragedy occurred to their youngest daughter which was the talk of the alley for a while. In the first year of her marriage, she had disappeared and gone to live with a man in Boulaq. The matter had ended by her being sent off to prison with him. This disgrace was a heavy burden on the family, but not the only one to afflict them. Kirsha himself had a problem, both old and new, and it seemed endless.
Mrs. Kirsha questioned Uncle Kamil and Sanker, the café waiter, until she learned of the boy who had begun to frequent the café being served most graciously by Kirsha himself. Secretly she kept an eye on the café visitors until she saw the boy and watched him sit at the café owner’s right after receiving a warm welcome. It made her furious and she felt all the old wounds opening again. Mrs. Kirsha spent a tortured, sleepless night and was even worse when she awoke in the morning. She could not make up her mind on a definite course of action. In the past she had often had to battle over this matter, although without success, and so she did not hesitate to try again. She wavered slightly, however, not from fear of his anger, but because she did not want to cause a scandal for the gossips.
Hussain Kirsha was getting ready for work and she approached him, breathless with anger. With extreme emotion she exclaimed, “My boy, do you know that your father is preparing a new scandal for us?”
Hussain knew at once what she meant, for her words could only mean one well-known thing. He was filled with scorn and his small eyes flashed in anger. What sort of life was this, never a single day free from hardship and scandals? Perhaps this was the reason he threw himself into the arms of the British Army. His new life had only doubled his dissatisfaction with his home, rather than reconciling and calming him. He disliked his family, his house, and the entire alley. Now what his mother said was only fuel to the flames that already raged. He asked her, in a fury, “What do you want from me? What have I to do with all that? I interfered before and tried to reform him and we nearly came to blows about it. Do you want me to use physical force on my own father?”
His father’s misconduct did not concern him in the least. All he objected to were the scandals and disgrace his father caused and the fiery quarrels and scenes at home. The “sin” itself did not bother him in the slightest. Indeed, when news o
f it first reached him, he merely shrugged his shoulders in indifference and said unconcernedly, “He is a man and men don’t care about anything!” Then he had come with the others to feel irritation and indignation toward his father when he learned his family was the subject of gossip and cruel jokes. Originally, even, his relations with his father had been strained, as always happens when two people of similar characters clash head-on. They were both rude, ill-natured, and bad-tempered. When this trouble had first arisen, it had doubled their natural friction until they had become like enemies, sometimes fighting, sometimes declaring a truce, but their animosity toward each other never died out.
Mrs. Kirsha did not know what to say, but she had no intention of causing a new enmity to flare up between father and son. She permitted him to leave the flat, livid with anger, and spent a most unhappy morning herself. She was not one to submit to defeat, despite the great and frequent misery the years had brought her. Her mind was made up to reform the sinful man, even though in doing so she might expose herself to the gossips.
Mrs. Kirsha thought it best to convey her warning while her blood was still up. She waited until midnight when the café customers left and her husband was ready to lock up; then she called down to him from her window. The man raised his head, obviously annoyed, and shouted up inquiringly, “What do you want, woman?”
Her voice came down to him: “Come up, please, I have something important to tell you.”
The café owner made a sign to his “boy” to wait for him where he was and slowly and heavily made his way up the stairs. He stood panting at the threshold of his flat and asked her harshly, “What do you want? Couldn’t you have waited until morning?”