The Harafish

  “There are so many of them and yet they’re helpless,” sighed Fulla.

  “Have we forgotten something? Is there anything else we can try?” asked Shams al-Din dejectedly.

  She let her tears flow unhindered. “Right from the start I knew it was wrong to have false hopes!”

  “I don’t like people who fear the worst always,” he shouted angrily. “Nobody’s made off with him. He’s not some toy. And he’s too shrewd to fall into a trap. I’m only worried because the trails have all gone cold.”

  8.

  The following morning Ashur’s men gathered in the café together with Shams al-Din and Fulla; they were joined by Sheikh Mahmoud and Husayn Quffa, imam of the little mosque. All were perplexed and full of foreboding, but none dared to express his fears.

  “In twenty years the chief’s never altered his routine,” said Dahshan.

  “He must have a secret!” said Husayn Quffa.

  “He doesn’t have secrets from us,” said Ghassan.

  “And certainly not from me!” declared Fulla.

  “Could he have joined the dervishes?” suggested Husayn Quffa.

  “Impossible!” objected several voices.

  “Something tells me he’ll reappear as suddenly as he vanished,” soothed Sheikh Mahmoud.

  “It’s hopeless,” wailed Fulla.

  At this Dahshan pronounced dramatically, “Perhaps he’s been betrayed.”

  Hearts raced and eyes flashed angrily. “Even lions are sometimes betrayed,” persisted Dahshan.

  “Calm down,” cried Mahmoud Qatayif. “Nobody bears a grudge against the finest man in the alley.”

  “There are always people with grudges.”

  “Guard against temptation and be patient. God is our witness.”

  9.

  Darwish was handing a calabash to a drunken customer. The man suddenly gripped his arm and whispered in his ear, “I heard Ashur’s men talking. They were saying that you’re the only person who could have betrayed him.”

  Darwish hurried in alarm to Mahmoud Qatayif’s shop and told him what he had heard. He was shaking with terror. Qatayif lost patience with him. “Stop acting like a woman!” he snapped.

  “How can they suspect me when I’m in the bar night and day?”

  The sheikh thought hard. “Run away,” he said eventually. “You’ve got no choice.”

  Darwish suddenly vanished. Nobody knew if he had fled, or if someone had killed him. Nobody asked about him, and Sheikh Mahmoud appeared not to notice he had gone. Soon the bar was taken over by a local drug trafficker, Ilaywa Abu Rasain, and it was as if Darwish had never existed.

  10.

  The days passed without a glimmer of hope, slowly, heavily, shrouded in melancholy. They all despaired of seeing Ashur al-Nagi again, sadly remembering the giant figure going about the neighborhood, restraining the powerful, protecting the rights of the humble breadwinners, and creating an atmosphere of faith and piety.

  Fulla wore mourning; Shams al-Din wept uncontrollably, and Ashur’s men were sunk in sorrow and reflection. Some people thought that Darwish had betrayed Ashur, then killed him near the monastery, dragged his body to the cemetery, and buried him in an unmarked grave. There were those who insisted that Ashur would return one day and laugh at all their desperate notions; others imagined that because his disappearance aroused such strong feelings it was a miraculous event, and proved that he was a saint.

  The harsh magic of custom began to have its effect on the sad episode, making it acceptable, ordinary, reducing its significance, thrusting it into the eternal stream of events where it vanished from sight.

  Ashur al-Nagi had disappeared.

  But time and fate will never stand still.

  11.

  A new chief had to be chosen before the regime crumbled completely or ambitious gangs from other alleys moved in. The choice was narrowed down to Ghassan and Dahshan as the strongest candidates and the closest to al-Nagi. Shams al-Din was not even considered: he was too young and delicate-looking. Each man backed his favorite, and they decided to follow the procedure normally adopted in such cases: the rival candidates were to fight it out in the Mameluke Desert and the winner would be made chief.

  News of these developments reached Fulla and when she saw Shams al-Din dressing to go and watch the fight with the other gang members tears of self-pity sprang to her eyes. Irritated by his mother’s reaction, he said, “The alley can’t survive without a chief.”

  “Who can follow him?” she asked fiercely.

  “There’s nothing we can do.”

  “The place’ll be run by thugs and tyrants like it was before.”

  “It won’t be that easy for them to turn their backs on al-Nagi’s legacy,” said the boy with passion.

  She sighed and seemed to be addressing herself: “Before, even though I was poor, I was a lady. Now I’m going to be just a sad widow, abandoned by everybody, praying without hope, dreaming of my lost paradise, hiding away at weddings, afraid of the dark, wary of men, avoiding other women, bored and forgotten.”

  “I’m not dead yet!” he said reproachfully.

  “God give you a long life. But your father’s left you while you’re still a boy. A carter without money or status, or his giant size which would have guaranteed you the leadership…”

  “I have to go now,” he muttered dispiritedly. He said goodbye, tucked his father’s rough stick under his arm, and left.

  12.

  Shams al-Din had grown up in a Spartan household and knew only hard work and a simple way of life. He remembered nothing of the opulence of the Bannan house. His father used to take delight in his handsome face, almost a copy of his mother’s, and say, smiling, “This boy’s not cut out to be a chief.”

  He sent him to Quran school, poured life’s sweetest melodies into his heart, and did not neglect the physical side of his education: he taught him horse riding, single-stick fencing, boxing, and wrestling, although he had no thoughts of preparing him to be chief. As Shams al-Din became more aware of his surroundings, he realized the extent of his father’s power and influence and was brought abruptly face-to-face with the sharp contrast between his greatness and the miserable life he led. One year as a feast day approached he declared boldly, “Father, I want to wear a cloak and headcloth in the parade.”

  “Have you ever seen me in anything but a plain gallabiyya?” asked his father sternly.

  Like her son, Fulla was annoyed with the way they lived and said to Ashur in his hearing, “Nobody would blame you if you took enough from the taxes to ensure yourself a decent living.”

  “No,” replied Ashur. “You should raise chickens if you want to make us a bit more comfortable.” Then, turning to Shams al-Din, he added, “Surface gloss has no value in this life compared to a clear conscience, the love of your fellow man, and the pleasure of listening to the anthems!”

  He trained him to be a carter and they shared the work until Ashur was approaching his sixties, when he handed most of it over to Shams al-Din. Shams al-Din admired and respected his father but at the same time longed for a life of ease; sometimes he supported his beautiful mother in her aspirations. Spurred on by these suppressed desires, he innocently accepted a feast-day bonus offered to him by the owner of the caravanserai and rushed out to buy a cloak, headcloth, and leather shoes with turned-up toes. On the morning of the feast he sauntered proudly through the alley in his new attire. When Ashur saw him, he grabbed him by his collar and marched him into the basement, then struck him so hard that his head spun.

  “They’ll use your weakness to get at me, now they’ve failed to make me back down,” he shouted.

  He made him take the clothes back to the shop and return the bonus. Shams al-Din realized that he was powerless in the face of his father’s anger. He felt ashamed of himself and disillusioned with his mother who dared not defend him or take his side.

  But it was love, not force, which bound Shams al-Din to his father as his pupil, confidant, and fri
end; he was saturated with his words, inspired by his piety, and shared his passion for the sacred songs and the stars. He drove his cart proudly, quelling the flashes of weakness which stirred in his depths every now and then.

  In spite of their poverty they had been received with affection and esteem wherever they went. Would things change now? For here was his mother looking at the future with eyes full of apprehension!

  13.

  In the vast wildness of the Mameluke Desert the men looked like a few scattered grains of sand. This was the territory of robbers and fugitives, home to jinns and reptiles, graveyard of countless anonymous bones. Ghassan approached, surrounded by his men, and stood face-to-face with Dahshan and his supporters. Eyes met under the burning sun, tortured by the fierce blaze of heat rising from the sand. The surrounding emptiness looked on coldly, mockingly, without pity, promising the loser eternal ruin.

  Shams al-Din came up quietly and chose a position equidistant between the two groups, thereby proclaiming his neutrality and, at the same time, his readiness to rally to the winner’s flag. He raised his hand in greeting and cried in his loud, hoarse voice—the only trait he had inherited from Ashur—“The peace of God on the people of our alley.”

  Lips dry with dogged anticipation muttered back, “The peace of God on the great man’s son.”

  It occurred to Shams al-Din that neither side had asked him to join them or sought his mother’s blessing. On the cruel field of battle women and inexperienced youths were irrelevant.

  Shaalan the One-Eyed came and stood beside him. Once a clan chief himself, in his old age he acted as arbitrator, impartial and reliable. He announced, “The contest between Ghassan and Dahshan will begin. Let every man present remember his duty.”

  He gestured warningly and carried on, “Keep in your places, abide by the result. Going against it means disaster for all.”

  Nobody spoke. The desert watched with its cold, hard, mocking stare. A raven croaked in the clear blue dome of the sky. Shaalan the One-Eyed said, “May the best man win. Everyone will owe him allegiance, including the loser.”

  The sweat-stained faces acquiesced without protest and Shaalan turned to Ghassan: “Do you swear to submit if you are defeated?”

  “I swear, as God is my witness,” said Ghassan.

  “And you, Dahshan?”

  “I swear, as God’s my witness.”

  “A touch is enough to decide the winner. Avoid violence at all costs. It only causes ill feeling.”

  The circle opened out, leaving Ghassan and Dahshan alone in the ring: two sturdy bodies tensed and ready to spring, they brandished their sticks like magicians. Ghassan jumped forward and Dahshan attacked. Their sticks clashed, turning around each other, whirling with cunning grace. Each player struggled for a touch, blocked, parried, and ducked, their tension and determination mounting as the fight reached its climax. The infernal heat of the sun fell on their heads in benediction.

  With a sudden swift lunge, Ghassan caught Dahshan off his guard, struck home, and touched his collarbone. Wild with enthusiasm, his supporters cried, “Ghassan! Ghassan! God bless Ghassan!”

  Dahshan slumped, panting, swallowing his disappointment. Ghassan held out his hand and said, “My brother!”

  Dahshan shook it, muttering, “My chief!”

  “God bless Ghassan! God bless Ghassan!” chanted the crowd.

  Ghassan turned in a circle, elegantly, exultantly, as he addressed them. “Does anyone wish to object?” he demanded.

  The crowd roared their allegiance. As the storm of support died down, a voice spoke: “I object, Ghassan.”

  14.

  All eyes turned in amazement to Shams al-Din. He stood apart a little, tallish and slender, his handsome face raised in pride, his skin suffused with the sun’s burning rays.

  “You, Shams al-Din?” gasped Ghassan.

  “Yes, me, Ghassan,” he answered firmly.

  “Do you really want to be clan chief?”

  “It’s my duty and my fate.”

  One-Eyed Shaalan said kindly, “Your father himself didn’t prepare you for it.”

  “I’ve learned a lot, and I know things other chiefs don’t.”

  “Goodness isn’t enough by itself!”

  Shams al-Din attempted a few moves with his father’s club, every gesture full of elegance and charm.

  “I can’t harm you!” Ghassan shouted.

  “Let the weapons do the talking!”

  “You’re just a lad, Shams al-Din!”

  “I’m a man like my father.”

  Ghassan raised his face to the burning sky and cried, “Forgive me, Ashur!”

  Nobody felt happy at this turn of events. Lips curled in displeasure. The desert appeared colder, harsher, more disparaging than ever.

  Shams al-Din made the first move and the battle started. In its opening explosive moments a miracle occurred: Shams al-Din’s weapon found its way to Ghassan’s leg and scored a hit. Ghassan stopped fighting in disbelief. Apparently he had underestimated his opponent and was paying the price, or so thought many of the spectators. But the battle had scarcely begun. How could it end just like that? Ghassan, still incredulous, prepared to go on fighting. The crowd was silent. Shams al-Din held out his hand. “My brother,” he said.

  Ghassan ignored him, anger leaping into his eyes.

  “Your hand, Ghassan,” cautioned One-Eyed Shaalan sympathetically.

  “He was just lucky,” shouted Ghassan.

  “God wanted him to win.”

  “The contest is decisive only when the contestants are equally matched,” persisted Ghassan, “but Shams al-Din is still a sapling, ready to crack. Or do you want to be easy meat, a toy in the hands of any powerful chief around?”

  At this Shams al-Din threw down his club, stripped to his loincloth, and stood waiting, his slender body glistening in the shimmering air.

  Ghassan smiled confidently and did the same. “I’ll protect you from your evil urges,” he said.

  Cautiously they approached one another until their bodies touched, then they clinched and grappled, each one using all his strength and will, until their muscles bulged and their veins stood out. Their feet sank into the sand. Each one was possessed by a huge, inflexible desire to crush the other until the last breath of life left his body. The crowd watched in stunned silence, waiting for the blood to flow. The seconds passed, molten in the furnace of the sands. The crowd held its breath and not a sound was heard. Ghassan’s brows met in a furious scowl. He appeared to be challenging the impossible, resisting fate. Struggling like a drowning man. Fighting the unknown like a madman. Unleashing blind fury against creeping despair. And yet he weakened, despite his persistence and pride and anger. He lost his footing, staggered, and, with a rasping intake of breath, began to sink. Shams al-Din showed him no mercy until his arms sagged, his legs buckled, and he collapsed on the ground.

  Shams al-Din stood panting, bathed in sweat. The shocked silence prevailed, broken only when One-Eyed Shaalan handed him his clothes and cried, “Long live our young chief!”

  Then the crowd roared out, “God bless him! God bless him!”

  “Ashur al-Nagi has risen from the dead!” exclaimed Dahshan.

  “His new name shall be Shams al-Din al-Nagi,” pronounced One-Eyed Shaalan.

  The vast unchanging desert bore unimpassioned witness to his glory and might.

  15.

  The alley was waiting for the victory parade. Many people had put their money on Ghassan and almost as many on Dahshan, but no one had thought of the nice young Shams al-Din. The initial feeling of shock which the news provoked quickly turned to absolute joy. The harafish danced in the street and said it meant that Ashur lived on.

  “Has the age of miracles returned?” asked Mahmoud Qatayif with angry sarcasm.

  Shams al-Din received a splendid welcome. Even Fulla trilled for joy although she was in mourning.

  Sheikh Mahmoud heard the story of the contest from One-Eyed Shaalan and was secretl
y filled with gloom. “Does this mean the age of poverty and depression will continue?” he said to himself.

  16.

  “I prepared myself for this,” confided Shams al-Din proudly to his mother.

  “Even your father didn’t believe it possible,” said Fulla wonderingly.

  “It’ll be hard for someone like me to succeed him.”

  “Watch out for Ghassan. He’s your enemy now. But you can win your men’s hearts if you play your cards right!”

  “I’m the people’s only hope now. I can’t disappoint them.”

  “Moderation is chief of virtues,” she said provocatively.

  “I can’t disappoint them,” he repeated doggedly.

  17.

  The days passed, pulsating with happiness. The people truly believed that Ashur al-Nagi lived on. Ghassan spent his evenings in the bar and when he was drunk he would sing:

  If your luck turns

  It’s not enough to be smart.

  One night Shaalan rounded on him. “Haven’t you had enough of that stupid song? You ought to get rid of the bitterness in your soul.”

  “He’s sold it to the devil,” teased Dahshan.

  “You can’t forgive me for beating you, Dahshan,” said Ghassan roughly.

  “Go to hell! At least I stuck to the rules.”

  “If you hadn’t had it in for me, you’d never have accepted a boy as chief.”

  “He was a worthy winner, wasn’t he?” said Dahshan resentfully.

  “Something tells me our new chief will be a good customer of mine,” interjected Abu Rasain.

  Ghassan guffawed. “I’ll shave my mustache off if that ever happens,” he said. “All we’ll get from him is poverty.”

  “This evening’s going to turn out badly,” moaned One-Eyed Shaalan.

  “You’ve had too much to drink, Shaalan,” said Ghassan scathingly. “It’ll be just like any other evening. Like all those happy evenings in the good old days when the best whore of the lot paraded around in front of the drunks in all her glory!”

  Dahshan flung his calabash at him, hitting him full in the chest. “Bastard!” he roared in his face.

  Ghassan stood up menacingly but Shaalan bounded toward him and said in a stern voice, “You’re not wanted here anymore, Ghassan.”