Children of the Alley Page 12

  The anger in Gabal’s blood ignited and he shouted, “God damn you and Zaqlut. Leave him alone, you shameless man!”

  Qidra stopped beating Daabis and looked up at Gabal, amazed. “What are you saying, Gabal! Weren’t you there when his excellency the overseer ordered Zaqlut to discipline the Hamdan?”

  “Leave him alone, you shameless man!” shouted Gabal, his anger rising.

  “Don’t think that your service in the overseer’s house can protect you from me, if you want what’s coming to you!” said Qidra in a voice trembling with rage.

  Gabal flew at him like a man who had lost his mind, and kicked him over on his side, shouting, “Go back to your mother while she still has a son alive!”

  Qidra jumped to his feet and snatched his club from the ground, then raised it nimbly, but Gabal, moving more quickly, punched him in the stomach so hard that he reeled back in pain. Gabal seized this opportunity to grab the club from his hand, and he stood looking warily at him. Qidra took two steps back, then stooped quickly and picked up a stone, but before he could throw it the club came down on his head and he screamed, turning where he stood, then fell on his face, blood spurting from his forehead. Night was falling, and Gabal looked around but saw no one but Daabis, who had stood up and was dusting off his clothes and palpating the injured parts of his body. He then came over to Gabal.

  “Thank you, Gabal. You’re a great brother,” he said softly.

  Gabal did not answer, but leaned over Qidra and turned him on his back. “He’s out cold,” he murmured.

  Daabis now leaned over him, and spat on his face. Gabal pushed him completely away and leaned over him again. He began to shake him gently, but there seemed no hope of waking him.

  “What’s wrong with him?” he asked.

  Daabis crouched over him and put his ear to his chest, then put his face close to Qidra’s. He lit a match, then stood up and whispered, “He’s dead.”

  Gabal’s body went all gooseflesh. “Liar!” he said.

  “Dead, dead, by your life!”

  “Oh, my God.”

  Daabis took it lightly. “Think how many people he’s beaten—how many he’s killed. Let him go to the garbage heap!”

  “But I have never hit anyone or killed anyone,” said Gabal sadly, as if talking to himself.

  “You were only defending yourself.”

  “But I didn’t intend to kill him, and I didn’t want to.”

  “You are strong, Gabal,” said Daabis seriously. “You have nothing to fear from them. You could become our protector if you wanted.”

  Gabal clutched his forehead in his hand and cried, “Oh, God, no—am I a killer from my first blow?”

  “Be sensible. Let’s bury him before all hell breaks loose.”

  “Hell is going to break loose whether we bury him or not.”

  “I’m not sorry. Now it’s the others’ turn. Help me hide this animal.”

  Daabis picked up the club and began to dig in the earth not far from the spot where Qadri had dug long ago. A moment later, with a heavy heart, Gabal joined him. They worked silently until Daabis spoke, to ease the melancholy in Gabal’s thoughts.

  “Don’t be sad. In our alley, killing is as common as eating dates.”

  “I never wanted to be a killer,” Gabal sighed. “Good Lord, I never knew I could get so angry!”

  When they had finished digging, Daabis got up, wiped his brow with his sleeve and blew his nose to clear out the smell of dirt that filled his nostrils.

  “This hole is big enough for that bastard and the rest of them too,” he sneered.

  “Respect the dead,” said Gabal, sounding troubled. “We’re all going to die.”

  “When they respect us in life, we can respect them in death.”

  They lifted up the corpse and carried it to the hole, and Gabal laid the club at its side, then they covered it with dirt.

  When Gabal lifted his head he saw that night had hidden the world and everything in it, and he sighed deeply, and stifled the urge to weep.

  30

  Where is Qidra?

  This is what Zaqlut and the other gangsters were asking. They all wondered where their friend was—he had vanished from sight just as the men of Al Hamdan had vanished from the alley. Qidra’s house was in the next neighborhood over from the Al Hamdan’s. He was a bachelor and spent his nights out, and never came back home until dawn or later. It was not uncommon for him to stay away from his house for a night or two, but he had never been away for a whole week with no one knowing where he was, especially in these days of siege when he was expected to be alert and watchful as never before. They had doubts about the Al Hamdan, and it was decided to search their houses, which were attacked by the gangsters led by Zaqlut and carefully searched from the cellars to the roofs. They dug up the length and breadth of the courtyards, insulted the men of the Al Hamdan in every possible way—with slapping, kicking and spitting on them—but uncovered nothing suspicious. They split up to go all around the desert questioning people, but no one was able to give them any helpful guidance. Qidra was now the main topic as the hashish pipe was passed in the meeting place by the grape arbor in Zaqlut’s garden. Darkness swathed the garden except for the wan light of a small standing lamp set just a few inches from the brazier to light Barakat’s work as he cut the hashish and flattened out the pieces. He stoked the coals and pressed them into the top of the pipe to keep it going. The lamp shook in the current of breeze and its dancing light was reflected on the stolid faces of Zaqlut, Hammouda, al-Laithy and Abu Sari, showing heavy-lidded eyes whose distracted gazes held dark intentions. The croaking of frogs sounded like muted cries for help in the calm of the night. Barakat passed the hashish pipe to al-Laithy, who passed it to Zaqlut.

  “Where has the man gone? It’s as if the earth swallowed him up.”

  Zaqlut drew in a deep breath and dug into the hollow pipe with his index finger, then exhaled a blast of thick smoke.

  “The earth did swallow up Qidra. He’s been lying inside it for a week.”

  They looked at him worriedly, all except for Barakat, who was absorbed in what he was doing.

  “No gangster disappears without a reason,” Zaqlut went on, “and I know when I smell death.”

  After a coughing fit that bent him double as wind bends a blade of grass, Abu Sari asked, “Who killed him, sir?”

  “Think! Who would it be but one of the men of Al Hamdan?”

  “But they can’t leave their houses, and we searched them.”

  Zaqlut struck the side of his cushion with his fist and asked, “What do the other people in the alley say?”

  “In my neighborhood,” said Hammouda, “they think that the Al Hamdan have something to do with Qidra’s disappearance.”

  “Pay attention, you idiots, as long as the people think that Qidra’s killer was one of the Al Hamdan, we have to think the same thing.”

  “What if the killer was from Atuf?”

  “Even if he was from Kafr al-Zaghari, we aren’t as concerned with punishing the killer as we are with frightening the others.”

  “Wonderful!” exclaimed Abu Sari.

  Al-Laithy emptied the brazier and returned the pipe to Barakat and said, “God help the Al Hamdan.”

  Their dry chuckles mingled with the croaking of the frogs, and their heads shook threateningly from side to side. A sudden strong breeze blew, followed by the rattling of dry leaves. Hammouda slapped his hands together.

  “It’s no longer a question of trouble between the Al Hamdan and the overseer—it’s a question of our honor.”

  Again Zaqlut struck his cushion with his fist.

  “None of us has ever been killed by anyone in his alley.” His features hardened in such fury that his companions grew afraid of him and were careful to make no sound or movement that might turn his fury on them. Silence fell, in which only the gurgle of the hashish pipe, a cough or cautious clearing of a throat could be heard.

  “Suppose Qidra comes back unexp
ectedly?” Barakat asked.

  “I’ll shave myself clean, you girlish little hash-head,” sneered Zaqlut.

  Barakat was the first to laugh, then they all fell silent again. In their mind’s eye they saw the massacre: clubs crushing heads, blood flowing until it dyed the ground, voices screaming from windows and roofs, the mounting death rattle of dozens of men. Immersed in their violent desires, they exhanged cruel looks. They cared nothing for Qidra himself; none of them had liked him. In fact, none of them liked any of the others, but they were united by the common desire to terrorize, and to put down sedition.

  “What next?” asked al-Laithy.

  “I have to go back to the overseer as we pledged,” said Zaqlut.

  31

  “Your Excellency,” said Zaqlut, “the Al Hamdan have killed their protector, Qidra.” He was watching the overseer, but at the same time he could see Lady Huda to his right and Gabal to her right.

  Somehow the news did not come as a surprise to Effendi.

  “I have heard reports of his disappearance. Have you really given up hope of finding him?”

  The morning light pouring through the door of the hall redoubled the hideousness of Zaqlut’s face as he said, “He will not be found. I am an expert in these little schemes.”

  Huda noticed that Gabal’s gaze was fixed on the wall across from him, and said nervously, “If it’s true that he’s been killed, that is dangerous.”

  The grip of Zaqlut’s folded hands tightened. “And it calls for a terrible punishment, or we are finished,” he said.

  “He’s a symbol of our dignity,” said Effendi, playing with his string of prayer beads.

  “He’s a symbol of the whole estate!” said Zaqlut meaningfully.

  “Maybe it’s just a story—maybe this crime didn’t take place!” Gabal said, breaking his silence.

  Rage ignited in Zaqlut’s breast at the sound of Gabal’s voice. “We must not waste our time with talk.”

  “Show proof of his murder.”

  “No one of the people of our alley would disappear this way unless he had been killed,” said Effendi in a tone of voice that affected power in order to hide the anxieties behind it.

  The sweet breezes of autumn could not soften the atmosphere of bloody intentions.

  “This crime cries out to us in a voice that will be heard in the other alleys—what’s all this talk but a waste of time!”

  “The men of the Al Hamdan are imprisoned in their houses,” Gabal insisted.

  Zaqlut’s voice laughed, but not his face. “A nice puzzle!” he said mockingly. He relaxed in his seat and menaced Gabal with a piercing look. “All you care about is exonerating your people.”

  Gabal made a valiant effort to stifle his anger, but his voice had an edge to it as he said, “What I care about is the truth. You attack people for the most trivial reasons, sometimes for no reason at all, and right now all you care about is getting permission to stage a massacre of innocent people.”

  “Your people are criminals,” said Zaqlut. Hatred shone in his eyes. “They murdered Qidra while he was defending the estate!”

  “Sir overseer,” said Gabal, turning to Effendi, “do not let this man quench his bloody thirst.”

  “If we lose our dignity, we will lose our lives,” said Effendi.

  “Do you want us buried alive in our alley?” Huda asked, looking at Gabal. “You are forgetting the people who have made you what you are, but you remember the criminals.”

  The wave of rage in Gabal’s breast rose until it unsettled his restraint, and he shouted, “They are not criminals, but our alley is full of criminals!”

  Huda’s hand clutched the edge of her blue shawl. Effendi’s nostrils flared and he turned sallow.

  Zaqlut, encouraged, spoke out in hateful scorn: “You have an excuse for defending the criminals, as long as you’re one of them!”

  “It’s incredible—you sneering about criminals, when you’re the king of crime in our alley.”

  Zaqlut surged out of his seat, his face dark with anger. “If it weren’t for your status among the people of this house, I’d tear you into pieces right now!”

  “You’re out of your mind, Zaqlut!” said Gabal in a tone of frightening calm, which, however, disclosed his true feeling.

  “How dare you two talk like this in my presence!” shouted Effendi.

  “I’m rough with him to uphold your dignity,” said Zaqlut malevolently.

  Effendi’s fingers nearly broke the string of beads. “I forbid you to defend the Al Hamdan,” he snapped at Gabal.

  “This man is inventing lies about them for his own evil reasons.”

  “Let me judge that for myself!”

  There was a silence. From the garden came the twittering of birds, and from the alley a burst of loud cheers accompanied by filthy curses. Zaqlut smiled and said, “Does his excellency the overseer give me permission to discipline the criminals?”

  Gabal, convinced that the fateful moment had come, turned to the lady and said despairingly, “My lady, I will be compelled to join my people in their prison to share their fate.”

  “Oh, all my hopes!” cried Huda, visibly shaken.

  Gabal was so upset that he bowed his head, but a sharp feeling made him look over at Zaqlut, whose lips were curled in a hateful, gloating smile. “I have no choice,” he said miserably. “I will never forget your generosity as long as I live.”

  Effendi stared harshly at him.

  “I must know—are you with us or against us?”

  Feeling that his present life was finally at an end, Gabal spoke sadly: “What am I but the foster son of your kindness? I can never be against you, but I would be ashamed to leave my people to their ruin while I enjoy the grace of your protection.”

  Huda was fidgeting with anxiety at this crisis that threatened her motherhood. She said, “Dear Zaqlut, we will postpone this discussion to another time.”

  Zaqlut scowled in such pain that a mule’s hoof might have struck his face. He shifted his gaze between Effendi and his wife and stammered, “I don’t know what will happen in the alley tomorrow!”

  “Answer me, Gabal,” said Effendi, trying to avoid looking at Huda. “Are you with us or against us?” The rage within him rose and filled his head, and he screamed without waiting for an answer, “Either stay with us as one of us or you go back to your people!”

  Stirred by the effect these words had on Zaqlut’s face, Gabal said determinedly, “Sir, you are throwing me out, and I will go.”

  “Gabal!” came Huda’s tormented scream.

  “This is the man his mother gave birth to,” said Zaqlut mockingly.

  Unable to sit any longer, Gabal stood and walked firmly toward the hall door. Huda got up, but Effendi put out his arm to stop her. Gabal was gone. Outside, the wind blew, stirring the curtains and making the window shutters flap. The hall was filled with tension and gloom.

  “We must act,” said Zaqlut serenely.

  “No,” said Huda, with the nervousness and persistence that warned of her obstinacy. “For now the siege is enough. And beware of harming Gabal!”

  Zaqlut kept his temper; he could not be provoked after having scored this triumph. He raised questioning eyes to the overseer.

  Effendi looked as though he were sucking a lemon when he said, “We’ll talk about it later.”

  32

  Gabal cast a farewell look at the garden and reception hall and recalled the tragedy of Adham, retold every night to the accompaniment of the rebec, and walked to the gate. The gatekeeper stood up and asked, “What brings you out again, sir?”

  “I am leaving and I’ll never be back, Hassanain,” said Gabal agitatedly.

  The man’s jaw dropped and he stared at him for a confused moment, then mumbled, “Because of the Al Hamdan?”

  Gabal lowered his head silently.

  “Who could believe that?” asked the gatekeeper. “How could Lady Huda allow it? O God in Heaven! How will you live, my boy?”

&nb
sp; Gabal crossed the threshold of the gate, looking over at the alley jammed with people, animals and garbage. “The same way the people of’ our alley live,” he answered.

  “You were not born for that.”

  Gabal smiled a little distractedly, and said, “Only chance saved me from it.”

  He walked away from the house and the gatekeeper’s voice anxiously warning him to beware the gangsters’ anger.

  The alley stretched before his eyes with its dust, pack animals, cats, boys and animal dens, and he realized the scale of the upheaval in his life; the troubles that awaited him; the ease he had lost. But his anger eclipsed his pain, and he seemed not to care about the flowers, birds and compassionate motherhood.

  Hammouda appeared in his path and spoke with smooth insolence. “I hope you’ll help us punish the Al Hamdan!”

  He ignored him and headed for a certain large house in Hamdan’s neighborhood and knocked. Hammouda followed him and asked in surprised disapproval, “What do you want?”

  “I’m going back to my people,” he answered quietly.

  Astonishment narrowed Hammouda’s eyes; he did not seem to believe what he had heard.

  Zaqlut saw them as he was on his way home from the overseer’s house. “Let him go in,” he shouted at Hammouda. “If he comes out again, bury him alive.”

  Hammouda’s astonishment left him and a stupid smirk spread across his face. Gabal kept knocking until windows opened in the house and in the neighbors’ houses and heads popped out, including those of Hamdan, Itris, Dulma, Ali Fawanis, Abdoun, Ridwan the poet and Tamar Henna.

  “What does the aristocrat want?” sneered Dulma.

  “With us or against us?” asked Hamdan.

  “They threw him out, so he’s come back to his filthy roots,” shouted Hammouda.

  “Did they really throw you out?” asked Hamdan, moved.

  “Open the door, Uncle Hamdan,” said Gabal quietly.

  Tamar Henna trilled her shrill joy and shouted, “Your father was a good man, and your mother was an honorable woman.”

  “Lucky you—recommendations from a slut,” laughed Hammouda.