Children of the Alley

  “My girl! A cup of tea, if you please!”

  She looked over at him, and quickly filled a glass from a pitcher that was half buried in the ashes, then crossed the road to offer it to him.

  He smiled as he took it. “Bless you. How much?”

  “A nickel piece.”

  “It’s expensive! But for you, nothing is too much.”

  “In the big coffeehouse,” she protested, “they charge half a piaster, and it’s exactly what you have in your hand.”

  She left without waiting for his reply, and he began to sip the tea before it cooled, and without taking his eyes off her. How happy it would make him, having a girl that young. Her only fault was her red eye, and he could treat that easily, though that would require money that he did not yet have. The basement was ready; Hanash could sleep in the hall or the receiving room, if he liked, as long as he cleaned out the bedbugs first. He heard a strange buzz and saw people looking toward the end of the alley. Some of them were saying, “Santuri—Santuri.” Straining as much as he could, he looked out between the bars, and saw the gangster coming, surrounded by his gang. When he passed the portable coffee stand, he noticed the girl, and asked one of his men, “Who is the girl?”

  “Awatif, the daughter of Shakrun.”

  The man waggled his eyebrows, satisfied, and headed into his neighborhood.

  Arafa felt anxious and unhappy. He waved his empty glass at the girl, and she glided over and took it and the coin from his hand. He motioned with his chin in the direction Santuri had gone. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  She laughed as she turned to go. “I’ll ask you for help if I need it, but will you help?”

  Her scorn cut him; it was sad, not challenging. Just then he heard Hanash calling, and he jumped down to the floor and went inside.

  96

  Arafa’s clientele grew as the days passed, but no customer lifted his heart the way Awatif had done the day he saw her coming toward him in the receiving room. He forgot the learned gravity he assumed in front of his customers, standing up to welcome her. He seated her on a cushion opposite him, and sat down cross-legged, feeling that the world was not large enough to contain his joy. He greeted her with a look that took all of her in, but settled on her left eye, which was nearly hidden beneath an inflamed swelling.

  “You’ve neglected that, girl,” he objected. “It’s been red since the first day I saw you.”

  “I just washed it with warm water,” she said almost apologetically. “When you’re as busy with work as I am, you forget.”

  “You must never forget your health, especially when it’s a question of a precious organ like your beautiful eye!”

  She smiled, affected by the praise, while he reached back to a shelf behind him for a vessel. He took a small package from it and held it up to her. “Tie up the contents of this in a handkerchief, hold it over steaming hot water, then bind it over your eye every night until it goes back to being as beautiful as its sister.”

  She accepted the package, and took a bag from her pocket, asking him with her right eye how much it cost.

  He laughed. “Don’t worry about that. We’re neighbors, and now we’re friends.”

  “But you pay for the tea you drink.”

  “Actually, I’m paying your father,” he said evasively. “He is a venerable man. I wish I knew him! I feel so sorry that he has to work at his age.”

  “But he’s in good health,” she said indifferently. “He refuses to sit at home, even though his long life is one of the reasons he is sad. He lived through the events of Qassem’s time.”

  Arafa’s face lit up with interest. “Really! Was he one of his followers?”

  “No, but he was happy in those days, and he’s nostalgic for them now.”

  “I want to know him, and listen to him.”

  “Don’t get him talking on that subject. I wish he’d forget it forever, for his own good. One time he was in a bar having a drink with some of his friends, and after he got drunk he stood up and said, as loudly as he could, that life should go back to being the way it had been under Qassem, and when he got back to our alley he found Santuri in front of him. Santuri punched and slapped him, and he didn’t stop until he was unconscious.”

  Deeply angered, Arafa thought a moment, then looked slyly at Awatif. “No one is safe with those gangsters around.”

  She glanced at him fleetingly to see how much he meant by this clear statement. “You’re right, no one is safe with them.”

  He paused, biting his lip hesitantly. “I saw Santuri give you an absolutely insolent look.”

  She hid her smile with a slight downward turn of her head. “God take him!” she said.

  “Doesn’t it please a girl to be admired by a gangster like him?” he asked suspiciously.

  “He has four wives!”

  His heart sank deep within him. “But if he could have another?”

  “I’ve hated him ever since he attacked my father,” she said sharply. “And I feel the same way about all the gangsters. They have no hearts. They’re so arrogant when they collect the protection money that you’d think they were the ones giving it.”

  He relaxed, reinvigorated. “Yes, Awatif. And Qassem did the right thing when he got rid of them, but they’re back, like inflamed boils!”

  “That’s why my father longs for Qassem’s time.”

  He suddenly shook his head inattentively. “And there are others, who long for Gabal’s times, and Rifaa’s, but the past is gone for good.”

  “You say that because you never saw Qassem, like my father,” she said, sounding pleasantly vexed.

  “Did you see him?”

  “My father told me.”

  “And my mother told me, but what good is that? It doesn’t get rid of gangsters for us. My mother herself was one of their victims, and they even make insinuations about her, when she’s dead.”

  “Really?”

  His face clouded, like a glass of clear water suddenly made turbid by its swirling sediment. “That’s why I’m afraid for you, Awatif. The gangsters threaten our livings, supplies, love and peace. I’ll tell you the truth—from the time I saw that beast looking at you, I knew I would have to get rid of them all.”

  “They say our ancestor, Gabalawi, wants it that way.”

  “Where is our ancestor?”

  “In the mansion,” she said simply.

  He spoke quietly, his face showing no sign of mirth. “Yes, your father talks about Qassem, and Qassem talked about our ancestor. That’s what we hear. But all we see is Qadri, Saadallah, Agag, Santuri and Yusuf. We need a power to rid us of that torment. What good are memories?”

  He was aware that this turn of the conversation risked spoiling their meeting, so he began to speak ardently. “Our alley needs a power, the way I need you!”

  She looked at him in disgust, and he smiled with a boldness that came naturally to his predatory eyes.

  “A nice, hardworking, beautiful girl,” he said seriously, to banish the rising anger of her lowered eyebrows. “So overworked that she forgets her eye until it swells up, then she comes to me, thinking that she needs me. The truth becomes clear to her—that I am the one who needs her.”

  “I have to go,” she said, starting to get up.

  “Not in anger, please. Remember, I didn’t say anything new. Of course you’ve noticed my admiration for you these past days. I’m always looking from my window at your coffee stand. A bachelor like me can’t live alone forever. My house is full of work—it needs to be looked after. I make more money than I need—someone has to help me spend it.”

  She left the room, and he stood at the end of the hall to see her out. It was as if she did not want to go without saying goodbye.

  “Stay well,” she said.

  He sang softly to himself.

  How proud your cheek, my beauty.

  I hope to drink with, and to, my beauty.

  And you’re the most beautiful thing I see.

  Then he str
ode vigorously into his workroom and found Hanash engrossed in his chores. “What are you doing?”

  Hanash showed him a bottle. “It’s ready, and perfectly sealed, but you have to try it in the desert.”

  Arafa took it from him and checked the plug. “Yes, in the desert. Otherwise everyone will find out about it.”

  “We’re starting to make a living, and life is good—don’t throw away all the happiness God has given you.”

  Hanash had begun to feel depressed by life since it started to unravel, in his eyes. Arafa smiled at the thought, and gazed at Hanash.

  “She was your mother just as much as mine.”

  “Yes, but she begged you not to consider revenge.”

  “You had a different opinion then!”

  “We’d be killed before we could take revenge.”

  Arafa laughed. “I won’t hide from you that I stopped thinking of revenge a long time ago.”

  “Give me the bottle and let me empty it,” said Hanash, his face bright.

  But Arafa closed his hand over the bottle. “No, let’s test it until it’s perfect.”

  Hanash frowned resentfully.

  “I mean what I say, Hanash. Trust me, I’ve changed my mind about revenge, not because our mother begged me, but because I think the gangsters have got to go. Apart from any revenge.”

  “Because you love that girl,” said Hanash pointedly.

  Arafa laughed until Hanash could see down his throat. “Love for the girl, love for life, call it what you want. Qassem was right!”

  “What do you have to do with Qassem! Qassem was doing what his ancestor wanted.”

  He made a glum face. “Who knows? Our alley tells its stories, but we are doing vital things here in this room, there’s no doubt about that. Where is the safety in our life? Agag will come along tomorrow to rob us of everything we’ve got, and if I make any move to marry Awatif, I’ll have to face Santuri’s club. This is the way it is for every man in our alley, even the beggars. What ruins my happiness is what ruins the happiness of the whole alley, and what protects me will protect them. I’m not a gangster, or one of Gabalawi’s men, but I possess the wonders in this room, and they give me ten times the power that Gabal, Rifaa and Qassem had, put together.” He lifted the bottle in his hand, and made a vigorous motion as if to throw it, then returned it to Hanash. “We’ll test it tonight in the desert. Now, smile and get ready to be amazed.”

  He left the workroom for the window, and squatted on the sofa, looking out at the portable coffee stand. Night was falling gradually, and he could hear her voice hawking coffee and tea. She avoided looking at his window, which showed that she was thinking of him. A smile twinkled on her lips like a star. Arafa smiled, and his whole being smiled, and happiness so flooded his heart that he vowed he would comb his hair every morning. He heard the clamor of people chasing a thief out of Gamaliya, then, from a coffeehouse, the rebec melodies and the voice of the poet beginning the evening’s recital.

  First, to Lord Qadri our overseer

  Second, to Saadallah our gangster

  Third, to Agag, our local protector!

  This wrested him pitilessly from his dream, and he said, with a certain mutinous weariness, “Now the stories will begin. When will these stories ever end? What good has ever come from listening to them all night long? The poet will sing, and the drug dens will wake up. Alley of sighs.”

  97

  Shakrun’s life entered a period of mysterious upset. He sometimes spoke in a very loud voice, as if he were giving a speech. “Age. It’s old age,” people said pityingly. He got terribly angry for the most trivial reasons, or no reason, and they would again say, “Old age.” He remained silent for long periods, even when circumstances called for him to say something, and they said, “Old age.” He said things that the alley considered blasphemous, which made people say, a little anxiously, “God spare me from old age.” Arafa often watched him with concern and sympathy through the bars. One day he was watching him, and said to himself, “He is a dignified man, in spite of his old rags and dirtiness. The decadence of this alley after Qassem’s time is engraved on his gaunt face. It was his bad luck to have lived in Qassem’s time, and to have enjoyed justice and safety. He got his full share of the estate revenue, and saw the buildings built in Gabalawi’s name, and then stopped on Qadri’s orders. In all, he is a courageous man who has lived too long.” He saw Awatif coming, her face flawless since her eye was healed. He turned from the man to her and called out with a smile. “Tea, beautiful!”

  She brought him the glass, and he spoke before taking it from her to make sure that she stayed.

  “Congratulations on being well. You’re the rose of this alley.”

  “Thank God. And you.” She smiled.

  He took the glass, purposely touching her fingers with his, and she went back, her happy walk illustrating her acceptance of his touch, and her pleasure. What better time to take the decisive step? He was not a man who lacked boldness, though if he did Santuri would have a thousand accounts to settle with him. It was Shakrun’s fault, for putting his daughter in Santuri’s way! Poor man, pushing his cart had exhausted him until he could do it no longer, so he had opened this ill-omened coffee stand. From afar he heard clamor and shouts, and saw all heads turn toward Gamaliya. In no time a horse-drawn cart appeared, filled with singing, handclapping women, and in the middle of them a bride returning from the public baths. Boys ran toward the cart, cheering and holding on to the sides as it moved toward Gabal. The air was ablaze with shrill trilling, shouted greetings and obscene whispers.

  Shakrun stood up as if in anger. “Strike!” he thundered. “Strike!”

  Awatif hurried to him and made him sit down, patting him worriedly but lovingly on the back. Arafa wondered whether the man was dreaming, or hallucinating. What was worse than old age? So how could Gabalawi be living? He watched the man until he had quieted down, and then asked him gently, “Shakrun, did you ever see Gabalawi?”

  “Idiot,” said Shakrun, without looking at him, “don’t you know that he has been secluded in his mansion since before Gabal’s time?”

  Arafa laughed, and Awatif smiled.

  “God give you long life, Shakrun,” he said pleasantly.

  “That was a prayer that was really worth something, back when life was worth something,” Shakrun shouted.

  Awatif came to take his glass, and whispered to him, “Leave him as he is. He doesn’t sleep even one hour a night.”

  “My heart is with you,” he said with ardent concern. Then, before she could start walking away, “I would like to talk to him about you and me.”

  She warned him with a finger and departed. He consoled himself by watching the children playing hide the onion. Suddenly Santuri appeared, coming from the Al Qassem neighborhood, and instinctively Arafa drew his head back from the bars. What brought him here? Luckily he had moved into the Rifaa neighborhood, and Agag was his protector, Agag who was so besotted with the “gifts.” The gangster came closer until he stood before Shakrun’s coffee stand, watching Awatif’s face closely. “Coffee, no sugar,” he said.

  A woman’s laughter pealed from a window, and another woman was heard to ask, “What brings Qassem’s gangster to order coffee from the beggars’ stand?”

  Santuri seemed indifferent to everything. Awatif gave him the cup, and Arafa’s heart flip-flopped in his chest. The gangster waited for the hot drink to cool, showing the girl a shameless smile that revealed his gold teeth. Arafa thought to himself that he would like to beat him with Muqattam Mountain itself.

  Santuri sipped his coffee. “It’s delicious. Made with your beautiful hands,” he said.

  She was afraid to smile and just as afraid to frown. Shakrun looked at her, alarmed. The gangster gave her a five-piaster coin, and she reached into her pocket for his change, but he did not wait for it, or look as though he wanted anything. He strolled back to the Qassem coffeehouse. Awatif was confused.

  “Don’t go to him,” Arafa t
old her in a low voice.

  “What about the rest of the money?” she asked.

  Despite his feebleness, Shakrun stood up and took the money, then went to the coffeehouse. A moment later he came back and took his seat again. He began to laugh until his daughter came over to him.

  “That’s enough laughing,” she said urgently.

  Again he got up, and stood facing Gabalawi’s mansion at the end of the alley. “Gabalawi!” he shouted. “Gabalawi!”

  Every eye was on him, from the windows and the doors of the buildings, basements and coffeehouses. Children ran to him, and even the dogs stared at him.

  “Gabalawi!” Shakrun shouted again. “How long will you be silent and hidden? Your commandments are ignored and your money is being wasted. Look, you’re being robbed the same way your grandchildren are being robbed, Gabalawi!”

  “Hurray!” yelled the children, and most of the people laughed.

  But the old man kept shouting. “Gabalawi, can’t you hear me? Don’t you know what has happened to us? Why did you punish Idris, when he was a thousand times better than the gangsters in our alley? Gabalawi!”

  At this point Santuri came out of the coffeehouse. “Be careful, you senile old man.”

  Shakrun turned to him angrily. “God damn you, bastard!”

  People began to whisper anxiously, “He’s a dead man.” Santuri walked toward him, blind with rage, and punched him on the side of the head. The man staggered and almost fell, but Awatif caught him. Santuri saw her and went back to his chair.

  “Let’s go home, Father,” the girl said, weeping.