The Harafish Read online

  She said to Ashur, “Even heaven would be unthinkable without people or work to do.”

  He did not contradict her. “We have to be patient,” was all he said.

  He spent much of his time in prayer and meditation, and in thinking about the family he had left behind and the people of his alley. “I’ve never loved other people as much as I do now,” he confessed to his wife.

  He slept part of the day and stayed up all night. He thought so long and deeply that he had a strange presentiment he would soon hear voices and see figures from the spirit world. He became the companion of the stars and the dawn. Nothing separated him from God. Why did the alley’s inhabitants give in to death and believe that human beings were powerless? Wasn’t this a kind of blasphemy? He was involved in endless silent conversations with figures from his past: Sheikh Afra, Sakina, Naturi, Zaynab; and in sad confidences with his three sons. Hasballah was the one he would have chosen as his friend every time; it was a pity he had missed so many chances with him. Rizqallah was a lost cause, but he was smart, while Hibatallah was so attached to his mother that it was almost unhealthy. All the same, he decided that they were better than many of their peers and prayed long and earnestly for them and their mother. His alley seemed like a jewel stuck in the mud. He loved it now with all its faults. However, it was borne in on him in the course of his devotions that people bring their sufferings upon themselves. The notables, the harafish, Darwish, all revolve around a twisted axis, bent on mastering its awkward secret. And now God is punishing them, as if he has lost patience with them. Yet the dawn still reels in rosy bliss, the rays of light dance in everlasting joy.

  Soon he would hear voices, see spirits; he was about to be reborn.

  39.

  The occasion arose at last to make Fulla a believer. She was a young and beautiful woman without religion. She knew nothing of God or the prophets, of virtue rewarded or sin punished. All that protected her in this terrifying world were her love and her maternal instincts. Fine, he would bend all his efforts to educating her. If she hadn’t had such confidence in him she wouldn’t have believed a word he was saying. With great trouble she learned some chapters of the Quran so that she could say her prayers. She would burst out laughing in the middle and interrupt herself, but she prayed obediently, trying not to provoke her husband’s anger and anxious to please him.

  “Why does God let death destroy people?” she asked him innocently.

  “Who knows?” he answered fiercely. “Perhaps they need to be taught a lesson.”

  “Don’t get angry, like God!” she teased.

  “When will you learn to keep a decent tongue in your head?”

  “All right, so why did He create us with so much evil in us?”

  He struck the sand with his palm. “Who am I to answer for the Almighty?” he demanded. Then, imploringly, “We just have to believe in Him and serve Him with all our strength.”

  She abandoned the discussion. “Time’s passing and this loneliness is more terrible than death,” she complained.

  Silently he looked away from her. She was threatening to rebel. Would she run away, taking Shams al-Din with her? There would be nothing left in his life.

  Shams al-Din at least was content. He crawled around on the sand, sat and played with pebbles, slept well, was never bored, and grew in the wind and sun, feeding abundantly on his mother’s milk. The donkey too was happy, eating well, working little, swishing its tail at the flies, and roaming its kingdom with infinite patience. Ashur watched it with tenderness and respect: it was his friend and companion and his source of income; a firm bond of affection united them.

  40.

  The days went by. They came close to the edge of collapse in their relationship.

  Then one day on his return from Darasa, he announced, “They say the disaster is under control.”

  Fulla clapped her hands and cried, “Let’s go back at once!”

  “Let’s wait till I make sure it’s true,” he said firmly.

  41.

  The cart crossed the cemetery as dawn approached. Under the pale stars its passengers’ hearts overflowed with joy and trembled in gratitude for their escape. When they turned onto the path and were met by the sound of the chanting, tears sprang into their eyes; the songs said that everything would be as it always had been.

  Here was their alley immersed in sleep: people, animals, and things. As strange in its lethargy as in its wakefulness, it would always tantalize Ashur. As they passed Zaynab’s his heart stopped, but he didn’t want to disturb them and postponed the embarrassment of seeing them again till later. In their hearts he and Fulla blew dancing, joyous kisses to the walls, the earth, the cheeks of loved ones. Death had not conquered life, or he himself would be dead, but still he felt some regret and shame.

  At last they were in their own room, inhaling the odors of dust and decay. Fulla rushed to open the window. “What sort of welcome do you think you’ll get, Ashur?” she asked apprehensively.

  “Let them do as they think right,” answered Ashur with a defiance he did not feel.

  42.

  He squatted down behind the window bars patiently waiting for the last of the darkness to disappear. Light began to settle on the buildings so that their features emerged, familiar as the faces of old friends. He wondered who would be the first to come by. The milkman perhaps, or a servant at one of the big houses. He would greet him resoundingly and take whatever sarcasm came his way. Daylight was streaming into the alley by now and the bean seller was not even open for the breakfast trade yet. He moved away from the window uncertainly.

  “Government regulations seem to have changed the habits of the alley,” he said.

  He pushed his feet into his leather slippers and added, “I’m off to visit the children.”

  43.

  He walked along the deserted alley between locked doors and windows, stopped in front of Zaynab’s, pushed the door, and went in. The room was empty and gave off an odor of melancholy. The bed was made in the normal way, but covered with a layer of dust. The single sofa was strewn with worn clothes, the wooden bench overturned; under the bed were pots and pans, crockery, the cooking stove, and half a basket of coal; in the chest a black wrap, a dress, a comb, a mirror, a towel.

  They must have fled. But why had they left their clothes behind?

  In vain he tried to fight off the sense of impending disaster. He struck his forehead with the palm of his hand, sighed, and began to weep silently. Then he told himself that he would hear what had happened from other people, that it was too early to lose hope, and walked unsteadily outside.

  44.

  He followed the alley to the main square. How silent it was, how empty! Not a door or window open. He went forward slowly, stupefied. The bar, the caravanserai, the café, the houses, all were closed and shuttered. Nothing stirred. No sign of a cat or a dog, not a breath of life anywhere, and the dusty buildings all sunk in the same desolation.

  The sun shone for nothing, the autumn wind blew aimlessly. In his hoarse voice he shouted tearfully, “Is anyone there?”

  Nobody answered. No windows opened. No heads looked out. There was only the stubborn silence of despair, defiant fear, and leaden misery.

  He went through the archway to the little square and the monastery rose before him, unchanged. The mulberry leaves gazed at him and he saw their nectar running like blood. The anthems were silent, cloaked in indifference. He stared for a long time, sorrow tearing his heart from its moorings, tears flowing down his cheeks.

  In a voice like a roar of thunder he shouted to the dervishes in the monastery.

  It seemed to him that the branches bent and swayed to his voice, but no one answered. He began to shout unrestrainedly, to no effect. He cackled like an idiot.

  “Who listens to your songs every day?” he called. “Don’t you know who I am?”

  45.

  “There’s not a soul about,” he said to Fulla, drying his tears.

  From her own r
eddened eyes he saw that she too suspected a disaster.

  “From one wasteland to another, Ashur,” she remarked with a catch in her throat.

  He sighed helplessly.

  “Let’s go somewhere else,” she suggested.

  He looked at her in silent amazement.

  “Do you want us to stay in this graveyard?” she asked sharply.

  “We’ll move around in the cart. We won’t stay here all day. But this is the only home we have.”

  “An abandoned alley!” she exclaimed.

  “It won’t always be like this,” he cried angrily.

  46.

  Neither sorrow nor joy lasts for ever.

  Ashur returned to his trade as a driver. Fulla and Shams al-Din rode with him all day and part of the night, protected by this giant of a man.

  He realized that the alley must have been forgotten in the tide of weightier responsibilities inundating the authorities as the plague spread far and wide. No one would suspect his presence in this desolate corner. But they would come. One day they would come. People from here and there breathing new life into the alley, dispelling its blank chill.

  Whenever he went out in the early morning to fetch the cart, his eyes were drawn to the Bannan’s house. Its purple dome, its awesome bulk, its air of mystery fascinated him. What treasures were left inside? Would a member of the Bannan family bother to come and retrieve them?

  Temptation took root in his heart and gave rise to entrancing dreams. He was as curious as he had once been to see the secrets of the monastery. The difference was that the Bannan house was accessible and there was no one else around. A single action, entirely without danger, was all that stood between him and the fulfillment of his dream.

  47.

  He shrugged his broad shoulders disdainfully, and pushed open the door. Dust covered the mosaic of the wall tiles and the marble floor. Dust was the dominant presence everywhere. He stood dumbstruck on the threshold of the reception hall. It’s like a city square, Ashur! The ceiling was higher than a jinn’s head with a chandelier like the huge dome of Sultan Ghury’s palace in the middle and lamps hanging from each corner. Ornately patterned rugs covered wooden couches ranged around the sides of the room. Sumptuous hangings and framed verses of the Quran illuminated in gold lined the walls.

  He heard Fulla’s voice calling him and ran out to her. She looked at him in astonishment. “Whatever are you doing?” she asked.

  “Satisfying a whim,” he answered, shamefaced.

  “Aren’t you scared the owners will find out?”

  “There aren’t any.”

  She hesitated, torn by conflicting desires, then indicated the cart and said, “We’re late.”

  “Come and have a look around, Fulla,” he begged shyly.

  They spent the day going from room to room, exploring the bathroom and kitchen, trying out the divans and chairs and couches. A mad light sprang into Fulla’s beautiful eyes. “Let’s spend the night here,” she said.

  Ashur said nothing. He felt weaker than ever.

  “We could wash in that amazing bath, wear new clothes, sleep in this bed. Just for one night, then go back to our normal life.”

  48.

  But it wasn’t just for a night.

  They would leave the house at dawn and slip back in as night fell. During the day they drove the cart from one district to another and ate lentils, beans, and ta’miya; at night they floated about in cotton and silk, lounged on divans on the ground floor, and slept in a luxurious bed reached by a short flight of ebony stairs. Fulla stroked curtains, cushions, carpets, and exclaimed, “Our life was just a nightmare!”

  At night through the carved lattices the alley looked a gloomy place, haunted by wretched phantoms. “Divine wisdom is hard to comprehend,” muttered Ashur sadly.

  “But God is generous to those he chooses,” Fulla answered defiantly.

  Ashur smiled, wondering how long the dream would last, but she was thinking of other things.

  “Look at all these precious objects around us,” she said. “They must be worth a lot. Why don’t we sell some of them so that we can eat food more in keeping with our surroundings!”

  “But it’s other people’s money,” he said gently.

  “Nobody owns it. You can see that. It’s God’s gift to us.”

  Ashur pondered for some time. Temptation stole over him like sleep over a weary man. He resolved to find a way out of the crisis and arrived at a new formulation. “Money is forbidden when it is spent on forbidden things,” he announced.

  Eager to advance the debate, she said, “It’s a gift, Ashur. We only want to eat.”

  He began pacing the floor uncertainly. Finally he murmured, “It’s all right as long as we spend it honestly.”

  49.

  With the passing of time their scruples eased and Ashur and his family took up permanent residence in the Bannan house. The donkey grazed in the courtyard at the rear and the cart was stowed away in the basement. Ashur swaggered about the house like a rich man, with an elegantly rolled turban, a flowing robe, and a gold-handled cane. Fulla blossomed in her new life of ease, the most beautiful notable’s wife the alley had seen. Shams al-Din peed on the costly Shiraz carpets. From the gentle warmth of the kitchen floated the scents of grilled and roasted meats and spicy stews.

  The days went by and life began to steal back into the alley. The harafish came to squat in the derelict buildings. Every day a new family moved in to an empty house. Shops began to open their doors. Life breathed again, the chill vanished, voices called to one another, dogs and cats appeared, the cock began to crow at dawn, and only the houses of the rich remained empty.

  Ashur was known as the only notable in the neighborhood. People greeted him respectfully, addressing him without irony as “Lord of the Alley.”

  He was widely rumored to be the sole survivor of the plague and given the name Ashur al-Nagi, Ashur the Survivor. People were eager to sing his praises, seeing him as a good, kindly, and charitable man. He was the protector of the poor: not content with heaping alms on them, he bought donkeys, baskets, and handcarts and distributed them to the unemployed until only the old and the insane were without work.

  They had never known a rich man like this before and they raised him to the ranks of the saints, saying God had singled him out and spared him for this purpose.

  Ashur grew calm and his conscience eased. He began to fulfill dreams which had beguiled him in the past: he hired workers to clean the little square and the pathway and rid them of piles of dirt and rubbish. He built a trough for the animals, a drinking fountain, a small mosque, features which became as deeply embedded in the consciousness of our alley as the monastery, the archway, the graveyard, and the old city wall, and made it the jewel of the whole neighborhood.

  50.

  The sound of unfamiliar activity from the direction of the bar caught his ear one day. He was on his way to the Husayn mosque and stopped dead in surprise. Builders were reconstructing the place, restoring it to life. He leaned through the doorway and called, “Who are you working for?”

  “For me, sir,” came a voice from a dark corner to the right of the entrance and Darwish materialized before him from out of the gloom.

  He was gripped by a violent shudder of shock and distaste, closely followed by a surge of anger. “So you’re alive, Darwish,” he exclaimed.

  Inclining his head gratefully, he said, “Thanks to you, Lord of the Alley.” Seeing that Ashur was in need of enlightenment, he went on sarcastically, “I followed your advice and fled into the desert. I was quite close to you all the time.”

  Ashur decided to take the bull by the horns. “I forbid you to reopen the bar,” he said.

  “You might be lord of the alley and the only notable around, but you’re not the law or the clan chief!”

  “Why don’t you go somewhere else? Anywhere but here?” demanded Ashur angrily.

  “My home is here, Mr. Notable.”

  They looked at each ot
her in silence until Darwish said, “What’s more, I expect to profit from your general munificence!”

  Was he planning to fleece him? Trembling with anger, Ashur drew him outside and said, “Perhaps I can’t close you down, but I warn you, I won’t give in to threats.”

  “I thought you helped anyone in need?”

  “To do good, never harm.”

  “You’re free to spend your money as you want, of course,” said Darwish, emphasizing the “your” suggestively.

  Ashur shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe you’ll get the urge to expose me,” he said. “Maybe. But do you know what will happen to you if you do?”

  “Threats, Ashur?”

  “I’ll batter you to a pulp, I swear by the head of Husayn. When they come to scrape you up, they won’t know your head from your feet.”

  “Are you threatening to kill me?”

  “You know I’m quite capable of it!”

  “Just to keep your hands on money that’s not yours in the first place?”

  “It’s mine as long as I spend it on things that benefit people.”

  Again they stared silently at each other. Weakness flickered in Darwish’s eyes. “All I want is for you to give me handouts like you give the others,” he said pleasantly.

  “Not a penny to people like you.”

  A heavy silence descended.

  “Well?” demanded Ashur impatiently.

  “So be it,” murmured Darwish with regret. “Although we’re brothers, we’ll live side by side like strangers.”

  51.

  Fulla received the news agitatedly, her sweet face sullen with misery.

  “Use different tactics with him,” she pleaded. “Give him what he wants so we’re not haunted by the specter of betrayal.”

  “Didn’t the desert air purge you of such weakness?” frowned Ashur.

  She brandished her Damascus silk shawl at him. “This is what I’m afraid for.”

  He shook his head crossly.

  “We’re not safe anymore, Ashur.”

  “He’s evil, but he’s a coward,” replied Ashur with scorn.