His father was irritated; how maddening this dear child was. He squandered his precious time in Umm Bekhatirha’s house. He spent long hours all alone at Hind’s Rock. When he spent as little as an hour in the shop he caused trouble with his talk.
“Are you tired?”
“I cannot hide from you what I have in my soul,” said Rifaa with the strange calm that had replaced his unease.
“What is it?”
“Yesterday,” said Rifaa, drawing nearer, “after I left the poet’s house at midnight, I felt like I had to get away—I went to the desert. I walked in darkness until I got tired, then I chose a place under the mansion wall overlooking the desert, and sat down, and leaned my back against the wall.”
The concern was clear in the man’s eyes, and prompted him with one look to resume his story.
“I heard a strange voice speaking—as if someone were talking to himself in the dark. I was gripped by this wonderful feeling that it was the voice of our ancestor, Gabalawi.”
The man stared at his son’s face. “The voice of Gabalawi?” he stammered. “What made you imagine that?”
“I didn’t imagine anything, Father. You’ll have proof. I got up as soon as I heard the voice, and turned toward the house. I backed up so that I could see it but I saw nothing but darkness.”
“Thank God!”
“But listen, Father! I heard the voice say, ‘Gabal carried out his mission and I think well of him, but things have gotten worse—it is more abominable than it was before!’ ”
Shafi’i felt his heart burning, and sweat trickled down his forehead. “How many people have sat where you did, under that wall, and they never heard a thing.”
“But I did, Father.”
“It might have been someone lying down in the darkness!”
“The voice came from the mansion,” said Rifaa with a resolute shake of his head.
“How did you know that?”
“I called out, ‘Grandfather, Gabal is dead, and others have replaced him. Help us!’ ”
“I hope to God no one heard you,” said Shafi’i crossly.
“Gabalawi heard me,” said Rifaa, his eyes bright. “I heard him say, ‘What an abomination, for a boy to ask his old grandfather to do something. It is the beloved son who should act.’ I asked him, ‘What can I do against those gangsters? I am weak.’ He answered me. ‘The weak man is a fool who does not know his strength, and I have no love for fools.’ ”
“You think that you had this conversation with Gabalawi?” asked Shafi’i with something like panic.
“Yes, by the Lord of Heaven!”
Shafi’i moaned. “Dreams bring the worst disasters!” he lamented.
“Believe me, Father, I know what I am saying.”
“Give me hope that perhaps you don’t,” the man sighed.
“I know now what is wanted of me,” said Rifaa, his face shining with rapture like a sweet song.
Shafi’i struck his forehead in despair. “Something is wanted of you, yet?” he shouted.
“Yes. I am weak but I am not a fool. It is the beloved son who should act!”
“Your acts will be shameful,” cried Shafi’i, feeling that his heart was being pounded with a hammer. “You will perish and destroy us with you!”
“They only kill those who covet the estate,” Rifaa said with a smile. “What do you covet besides the estate?”
“Adham used to long for a good, full life,” said Rifaa in a voice brimming with confidence, “and Gabal too. He sought his rights to the estate only in search of that good, full life, but we were corrupted by the idea that this life will never be worthwhile for anyone unless the estate is divided among everyone. So everyone got his share and invested it, so that he was delivered from hard work, and was freed for a good, full life. But how trivial the estate is to one who can appreciate this life without it—and that is possible for whoever wishes. We can do without it from this moment on!”
Old Shafi’i sighed, somewhat relieved. “Did Gabalawi tell you that?”
“He said he had no love for fools. He said that a fool was a person who did not know his own strength, and that I would be the last one to fight for the sake of the estate. The estate is nothing, Father, and the happiness of a full life is everything. Nothing stands between us and happiness but the demons hiding within us, and it is not for nothing that I should love the treatment of demons and improve on it. Perhaps the will of the Lord of Heaven has compelled me to it.”
Shafi’i relaxed after this torment, but the torment had exhausted him and he sank down on his saw and stretched out his legs, resting his back against the leaf of the window waiting to be repaired, then turned to his son a little ironically. “Why,” he asked, “have we not achieved a full life, when we had Umm Bekhatirha before you were even born?”
“Because,” said Rifaa confidently, “she waits for sick rich people to come to her—instead of going herself to the poor.”
Shafi’i looked into the corner of his shop and spoke with doubt in his voice. “Look at the work we have. What does tomorrow have in store for us, thanks to you?”
“Every good thing, Father,” said Rifaa joyously. “Healing the sick won’t upset anyone but the demons.”
A light glowed in the shop from a mirror by the door that reflected the rays of the sinking sun.
51
That night the uneasiness spread to Shafi’i’s house. Although Abda heard the story composedly and knew only that Rifaa heard his ancestor’s voice speaking to him and that after that he had decided to visit the poor to cleanse them of demons, she was racked with unease and kept dwelling on the consequences. Rifaa was outside. At the farthest end of the alley—far from the Al Gabal neighborhood—there was a wedding loud with the sounds of drums, pipes and women’s joyful trilling. Wanting to face the truth, the woman said sadly, “Rifaa does not lie.”
“But he might have been deceived by delusions,” said Shafi’i. “It could happen to any of us.”
“What do you see in what he heard?”
“How should I know!”
“There’s nothing impossible about it—after all, our ancestor is alive.”
“We’re finished if the word gets around.”
“Let’s keep it a secret,” she said hopefully, “and thank God that it’s people rather than the estate that concern him. As long as he doesn’t harm anyone no one will harm him.”
“How many people in our alley are harmed and they hurt no one!” said Shafi’i tonelessly.
The wedding melodies were drowned out by a clamor that broke out in the passageway. They looked down from the window and saw crowds of men in the passage, and by the light of a lantern one man held they made out the faces of Higazi, Burhoum, Farhat, Hanura and others, and all of them were talking or shouting, and their voices intermingled as the noise level rose. Then a voice bellowed, “The honor of the Al Gabal is at stake! We will allow no one to stain it.”
“Our son’s secret is discovered!” Abda whispered tremulously into her husband’s ear.
Shafi’i drew back from the window and moaned, “My instincts have never been wrong.” He walked out of the house unmindful of danger, and his wife followed right behind him. He cut through the throng, calling out, “Rifaa! Where are you, Rifaa?” The man did not see his son in the space lit by the lantern, nor did he hear his voice, but Higazi came up to him and spoke loudly, to be heard above the din. “Is your son lost again?”
“Come listen to what’s going on—how evil people are playing with the Al Gabal again!” shouted Farhat.
“Say ‘There is no god but God,’ ” cried Abda anguishedly. “Be tolerant!”
There was a crescendo of angry voices, some of them shouting, “This woman is crazy!” Others yelled, “She doesn’t know the meaning of honor!”
Terror gripped Shafi’i’s heart. “Where is the boy?” he implored Higazi.
Higazi struggled through the crowd to the gate and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Rif
aa! Come here, boy, and talk to Shafi’i.”
Now Shafi’i was confused. He had been under the impression that his son was being held in the corner of the passage, but here was Rifaa, appearing in the beam of light. His father grabbed his arm and pulled him back to where Abda stood. In no time a lamp appeared, in Shaldum’s hand, as Shaldum came in with Khunfis behind him—Khunfis, whose face was contracted in a scowl of hostility. Everyone looked at the gangster. Silence fell.
“What do you want?” asked Khunfis in a voice brimming with rage.
“Yasmina has disgraced us!”
“Let a witness speak!” said Khunfis.
A donkey cart driver names Zaituna stepped forward until he stood opposite Khunfis. “A little while ago, I saw her coming out of the back door of Bayoumi’s house,” he said. “I followed her here and asked her what she had been doing in the gangster’s house. I saw that she was drunk—the smell of liquor on her breath filled the passageway. She broke loose from me and locked the door after her. Now, ask yourselves what a drunken woman was doing in a gangster’s house.”
Shafi’i and Abda’s nerves relaxed, and Khunfis’ tensed; this man knew that his prestige was faced with a severe test. If he failed to punish Yasmina he would lose his standing with the Al Gabal, and if he let these angry people attack her, he would be forced into a confrontation with Bayoumi, the protector of the whole alley. What could he do? The men of Al Gabal were streaming from their houses and crowding into the courtyard and the alley in front of the House of Triumph, making Khunfis’ position even more difficult.
“Kick her out of Al Gabal!” angry voices shouted.
“She should be lashed before we kick her out!”
“Kill her!”
There was a shriek from Yasmina, who was secretly listening in the darkness beyond her window. All eyes turned on Khunfis, as Rifaa was heard to ask his father, “Wouldn’t it be more fitting for them to vent their rage on Bayoumi, who violated her?”
This infuriated most of them, including Zaituna, who answered him. “She’s the one who went to his house!”
“If you don’t have any sense of honor, then just shut up,” someone else shouted.
His father rebuked him with a glare, but Rifaa persisted. “Bayoumi didn’t do anything the rest of you don’t do.”
“She is from the Al Gabal,” screamed Zaituna frenziedly at him. “She is not for others!”
“This boy is stupid and has no sense of honor.”
Shafi’i poked Rifaa to silence him.
“Let’s hear Khunfis!” shouted Burhoum.
The fury in Khunfis’ heart boiled up and nearly choked him. Yasmina was screaming for help. Anger was spreading, and dark, invasive stares were fixed on the girl’s house. Yasmina screamed until Rifaa’s heart broke and he could not stand it anymore. He broke away from his father’s arm and made his way to Yasmina’s house. “Mercy!” he cried urgently. “Have mercy on her weakness and fright!”
“You weakling! You woman!” shouted Zaituna.
Shafi’i too shouted to him passionately, but Rifaa ignored him to answer Zaituna. “God forgive you!” He turned to the throng. “Do whatever you want to me, but have mercy on her! Don’t her cries for help hurt your hearts?”
“Don’t pay any attention to this clown!” Zaituna turned to Khunfis. “We want to hear from you, sir.”
“Do you want me to marry her?” asked Rifaa.
The shouts of rage were interrupted by hoots of mockery.
“All we care about is that she gets her punishment,” said Zaituna.
“I will take care of her punishment,” said Rifaa desperately.
“We’ll all take care of it.”
Khunfis saw deliverance from his predicament in Rifaa’s suggestion. While he was not convinced by it in his heart, it was the best chance he had. He scowled fiercely to hide his weakness. “The boy has bound himself to marry her, in front of us all. He has his wish.”
Zaituna’s eyes rolled, blinding him with rage. “This cowardice destroys our honor!”
Suddenly Khunfis’ fist smashed his nose, and Zaituna fell back, wailing as the blood spouted from his nostrils. Everyone saw that Khunfis would protect his weak position by terrorizing anyone who stood against him. His eyes moved among the faces whose fear was plain in the lantern light. There was no sign of sympathy for the man whose nose had been shattered; Farhat even scolded him, saying, “Your problem is that you talk too much.” Burhoum told Khunfis, “Without you we would never have found a solution!” Hanura told him, “Your anger saved us, sir.” They began to disperse, leaving only Khunfis, Shaldum, Shafi’i, Abda and Rifaa. Shafi’i went over to Khunfis to greet him, and put out his hand, but the other, overcome with rage, struck it away with the back of his hand and Shafi’i stepped back, gasping. His son and wife hurried to his side as Khunfis left the passage, cursing the men and women, the Al Gabal and Gabal himself Shafi’i soaked his hand in warm water, and Abda massaged it.
“You see? Zakia must have been turning her husband against us!”
“The coward forgot that our idiot son saved him from Bayoumi’s club,” lamented Shafi’i.
52
Rifaa had been the focus of all his parents’ hopes; how terribly these were dashed now. The boy’s marriage to Yasmina would reduce him to nothing. Even before it happened the family was the talk of the town. Abda wept secretly until it made her ill, and Shafi’i frowned as gloomily as fate had frowned upon him, but they tried to keep it from Rifaa and avoided showing anger. Perhaps Yasmina limited the damage of the whole misadventure with her behavior afterward, when she ran to Shafi’i’s house and threw herself weeping at the feet of the man and his wife to pour out some of the gratitude that flooded her heart, sincerely and fervently proclaiming her repentance. There could be no going back on the match after the young man had publicly bound himself to it before the Al Gabal; Shafi’i and his wife accepted that fact and reconciled themselves to it. Their hearts were torn in two by the desire to observe tradition by celebrating Rifaa’s wedding with a procession, and the desire to limit it to a reception at home, to avoid exposing a procession to the mockery of the Al Gabal, who among themselves talked of nothing but their total disapproval of the marriage.
“How often have I dreamed of seeing the wedding procession of Rifaa, my only child, wend its way through the neighborhoods,” sighed Abda, wistfully expressing her stifled emotions.
“Nobody from the Al Gabal will want to take part in it,” snapped Shafi’i.
“It would be better to go back to Muqattam Marketplace than stay here among people who don’t like us!” Abda said, scowling.
“We won’t go outside the alley, Mother,” said Rifaa, who was sunning his legs under the window.
“I wish we had never left there!” Shafi’i exclaimed, adding, to his son, “Weren’t you sad, the day we came back here?”
“That was then, this is now,” Rifaa said, smiling. “If we went back, who would deliver the Al Gabal from their demons?”
“The demons can keep them forever for all I care!” growled Shafi’i. He paused. “You yourself are going to bring into this house a—”
“I’m not going to bring anyone into this house,” Rifaa interrupted him. “I’ll go and live in their house.”
“Your father didn’t mean that!” said Abda.
“But I mean it, Mother. The new house isn’t far—we could shake hands from the windows every morning!”
Despite his depression Shafi’i decided to celebrate the wedding day, though just barely. He hung decorations in the passageway and over the doors of the two families’ houses, and brought in a singer and a cook. He invited all their friends and acquaintances to come, but only old Gawad, Umm Bekhatirha, Higazi and his family and some of the very poor, who mainly wanted to be fed, accepted the invitation. Rifaa was the first lad ever to be wed without a procession. The family crossed the passage to the house of the bride, and the performer sang listlessly, what with the small number of gues
ts. While they ate, Gawad the poet extolled Rifaa’s noble-mindedness and morality. He said that he was a wise, chaste, pure-hearted lad, but that he was in an alley that valued only bullying, clubs and adultery. Then came the voices of some boys standing out in front of the house, singing:
Rifaa, Rifaa, you little louse,
Who told you to do what you did?
Then they cheered and yelled. Rifaa looked at the ground while Shafi’i turned pale. “Dogs—sons of bitches!” fumed Higazi, but old Gawad said, “How degraded this alley is, but let us never forget the goodness in it. How many gangsters have ruled here? But we remember only Adham and Gabal fondly.”
He urged the entertainer to sing something to drown out the heckling outside, and the party continued, struggling against leaden silence, until everyone went home. No one was left in the house except Rifaa and Yasmina, who was the soul of beauty in her wedding dress. Rifaa wore a roomy silk galabiya, an embroidered turban and bright yellow leather shoes. They were sitting on a sofa, facing their pink bed. The dresser mirror reflected the basin and ewer under the bed; she clearly was expecting his assault, or at least the preliminaries for his awaited assault, but he kept gazing at either the hanging lamp or the colored mat. When she had waited a long time and wanted to break the heavy silence that had fallen, she spoke to him tenderly. “I will never forget your kindness. I owe you my life.”
He looked at her kindly and said, “We all owe our lives to someone,” in a tone that suggested that he did not wish to stay on the subject.
How noble he was! The night of the incident he had refused to give her his hands to kiss; now he did not want to be reminded of the good thing he had done. There was nothing to compare with his goodness unless it was his patience. But what was he thinking about? Was he unhappy that his goodness had driven him to marry someone like her? “I’m not as bad as people think. They loved me and despised me for the same reason.”
“I know,” he consoled her. “How unjust our alley is.”
“They’re always so boastful of being descended from Adham,” she said resentfully. “At the same time, they brag about their crimes.”