The Harafish Read online

  “Everything’s clear now,” exclaimed Shams al-Din. “They’re trying to make me go back on my word and throw in my lot with thugs and criminals.”

  “God forbid!”

  “It’s the truth and you know it.”

  “God forbid, master,” pleaded the sheikh.

  “This is my last word…”

  The sheikh interrupted him, getting to his feet as he spoke: “Give it a little thought,” he begged. “All I’m asking is that you postpone your decision until you’ve thought a bit more about it.”

  And he rushed out of the door, as if he was glad to escape.

  27.

  Mahmoud Qatayif left behind him an odor of tobacco and sweat. In the silence that followed his departure their eyes met and parted. There was conflict between mother and son, between the youth and his instincts. The world’s dazzling sweetness lured him with its pungent aroma of forbidden passions. In this mean room flamboyant dreams of comfort and voluptuous intimacy blazed fiercely. The promptings of his spirit made him blush for shame at the thought of his beautiful rebellious mother with her bewitching sidelong glance. Her beauty, of unknown origins, was the embodiment of his odious hidden weakness.

  Aggressively he said to her, “As you know, the clan chief is the guardian and protector of the alley, the man responsible for restraining the forces of evil in it.”

  “And yet you can’t tell him apart from any old beggar,” she sneered.

  “Mother! Be on my side, not against me,” he said passionately.

  “I am, as God’s my witness.”

  “I want to be worthy of al-Nagi’s name,” he exclaimed, vexed with himself and his mother at the same time.

  “Ashur didn’t hesitate to take over the Bannan’s empty house,” she returned triumphantly.

  “And look how that turned out,” he said angrily.

  “He set a precedent for us, in any case.”

  “The time will come,” he said disparagingly, “when we attribute all our weak impulses to the great Ashur.”

  28.

  Shams al-Din walked along beside his donkey, calm and spent by the struggle. He always noticed how the sun shone cheerfully after clouds and rain. There was no shame in weakness if you overcame it. What was the point of strength if not to subdue these impulses of frailty? He felt the sublime nectar of life coursing through his veins once more.

  In front of Mahmoud’s shop he pulled on the reins and brought the cart to a halt.

  The man rushed out to him eagerly. Shams al-Din gave him a cold look, then said firmly, “Ashur al-Nagi is not dead!”

  29.

  Shams al-Din was going home one evening when the figure of a woman loomed up in his path.

  “Good evening,” she murmured.

  “Ayyusha? What brings you here?”

  “Won’t you come back with me?”

  His heart beat faster. The invitation frightened him, aroused his curiosity, set his young blood on fire. Meekly he followed her.

  30.

  As she led the way into the entry she whispered, “I don’t understand you.”

  “What?”

  “Aren’t we entitled to ask why the moon in all its glory is refused?”

  She opened the door into the room and lamplight fell on the ground. She stood aside for him, pushing him forward. He saw Qamr sitting on the edge of the bed, the only place there was to sit, veiled, her black wrap drawn tightly around her, her eyes downcast in embarrassment.

  He stood staring at her, overcome with emotion.

  From her place in the doorway, Ayyusha asked, “Have you heard bad reports of us?”

  “Not at all,” he answered in confusion.

  “Is there some flaw in our beauty?”

  Warning lights flashed in his head as he said, “God forbid.”

  “Has exposing our secret lowered us in your eyes?”

  He mumbled deprecatory noises, his mouth dry.

  The old woman went out, closing the door behind her, leaving him on the edge of the abyss.

  “I’m ashamed,” whispered Qamr in a voice that was barely audible. “I don’t know what I’ve brought upon myself.”

  “Nothing to be ashamed of,” he said stupidly.

  “Don’t think badly of me.”

  He collapsed under the deluge and his desire engulfed the universe. Rashly, proudly, blindly he succumbed to its imperious, arrogant power.

  Qamr barely resisted. “Don’t think badly of me,” she whispered.

  31.

  Shams al-Din found himself in the hall once more with the door shut firmly behind him. The place was bathed in darkness and it crept into the recesses of his soul. The fire had burned out, leaving the acrid fumes of cold ashes, and the world sighed in weary sorrow.

  At the end of the passage he saw Ayyusha’s form against the pale light of the stars. As he passed her on his way out, she said softly to him, “You can’t disappoint a lady.”

  He glowered at her and went off with a heavy heart.

  32.

  He had sinned, but others had sinned more gravely. His mind was confused; she was a cunning woman. But he wasn’t going to fall into the trap like an idiot or risk the precious gifts nature had given him, however much trouble and pain he had to bear. The forces of darkness were conspiring against him—like his mother and his moments of weakness—but he was ready to fight.

  33.

  Agamiyya Dahshan married Shams al-Din al-Nagi.

  “Tonight, everything’s allowed,” announced One-Eyed Shaalan, and carried the message from Khalil Sukkar’s hashish den to Ilaywa Abu Rasain’s bar.

  The traditional procession went all around the neighborhood, led by flutes and drums and escorted by a guard of honor with clubs raised high in salute. No other clan tried to stop it, and it reinforced the great chief’s dignity.

  Shams al-Din felt as if he was flying. Every time the procession came to a halt he was gripped by a feeling of rapture and inspiration: Ashur al-Nagi descended to bless him astride a green mare; angels sang to him from above the wisps of cloud, the monastery door opened and heavenly melodies laden with the nectar of ripe mulberries came pouring out.

  Agamiyya was borne along on a camel litter behind brocade curtains. Fulla received her with a radiant expression and a dismal heart.

  34.

  In the morning he sat on his favorite sofa in the café doorway.

  Ayyusha slipped up to him and squatted down at his right-hand side. A cloud blotted out the sun. “Congratulations,” she lisped.

  He thanked her and she continued, “Even though I didn’t go to the wedding.”

  “You’ve got an open invitation to all weddings,” he replied indifferently.

  “In any case, we’re expecting justice from our chief, just like everyone else.”

  “What’s your complaint?”

  “I’m defending the weakness of an honorable woman.”

  “You led me astray,” he grumbled.

  “Is a strong and trusted leader open to temptation?”

  “Go to hell,” he muttered angrily.

  She clambered to her feet. “We’ll wait patiently till justice is done.”

  35.

  The days passed. The storms at the end of winter were followed by the hot dusty winds of early spring. Banks of cloud gave way to clear blue skies.

  From the first month of the marriage, a fierce conflict had blazed between Fulla and Agamiyya. It grew worse, with no hope of a truce in sight, while the young bride gave birth to one child after another. Shams al-Din pretended to ignore it, as wary of supporting the oppressed as he was of chastising the oppressor. He was convinced that gang warfare was safer than interfering between two hostile women. Fulla was stubborn, spiteful, merciless, while Agamiyya, despite being hardworking and devoted to her husband and children, showed herself quite strong enough to stand up to Fulla and had a vicious tongue when roused.

  One day he heard Fulla insulting his wife, calling her grandfather a thief. “You can
’t talk,” shouted back Agamiyya at once. “You were brought up in a bar!”

  At this he lost his head and struck his wife so hard he nearly killed her.

  He took himself off to the monastery square to be alone in the dark. He was deaf to the sacred melodies, blind to the stars, consumed by the fire raging inside him. So it was true. Friends and enemies alike knew all about it. Were it not for the strength of his authority, his detractors would shout it from the rooftops. It was sure to be their favorite topic of conversation behind closed doors. He was on the brink of madness, but refused to despise his mother. Ashur al-Nagi would not have married her unless she was innocent and virtuous. Her union with Ashur was a permanent testimony to her virtue and had made a new creature of her. He cursed those who had dared touch her. But the reality remained, an open bloody sore. The plague had wiped out all the men who had fooled around with her. But the reality was unchanged. Life, even at its happiest moments, was tainted with poison. He cursed the troubled waters of sorrow. His sadness weighed so heavily on him that he felt as if the ancient wall had collapsed on his shoulders.

  36.

  In spite of everything, his mother considered that he had disregarded her rights. Giving way to her anger, she delivered an unexpected blow. She took advantage of Agamiyya’s absence from the house one day to declare boldly, “I’ve decided to marry again.”

  Amazed, he stared furiously at her. “What?” he demanded.

  “I’ve decided to get married.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I’m quite serious.”

  “It’s madness!”

  “It can’t be mad if God allows it.”

  “It will never happen while I’m alive,” he shouted.

  From then on he considered Antar al-Khashshab his rival, and humiliated him and threatened him until he was forced to stay indoors. “Look how our just chief behaves,” Antar was heard to say to his friends. “He even defies the law of the Almighty.”

  Shams al-Din grew angrier and sadder. He felt the earth was moving violently under his feet, and he was straying off the road.

  Fulla caught a fever and went into a decline. The herb doctors could do nothing for her. She gazed at him in silence, unable even to cry, and gave up the ghost in the dead of night.

  37.

  He felt as if he had been torn up by the roots. The sun was no longer shining. Rumors flew around the alleys of hostile clans that Shams al-Din had poisoned his mother to prevent her remarriage or had discovered an illicit relationship between her and Antar. He went about in a fury, initiated bloody battles, and was viewed in the area as a ruthless tyrant.

  Melancholy attacked him constantly like a chronic illness. Inwardly his uncharacteristic behavior terrified him: he mulled incessantly over regrettable episodes with Qamr, Fulla, and Antar, and wondered about the demonic violence unleashed in him when he was fighting. He began to say sadly of himself that he had al-Nagi’s name but none of his attributes.

  One night he was so agitated by all that had happened that he found himself going like a sleepwalker to Ayyusha’s flat. He sat down on the edge of the bed without looking at her while she stared at him in surprise. Without any emotion in his voice, he said, “Go and fetch Qamr.”

  38.

  The days went by.

  The children grew up and were apprenticed in various trades.

  Mahmoud Qatayif died and was replaced by Said al-Faqi. One-Eyed Shaalan died and Dahshan retired from active life. Husayn al-Quffa, the imam of the local mosque, died and was replaced by Sheikh Tulba al-Qadi. Ilaywa Abu Rasain died and Uthman al-Darzi bought the bar.

  Agamiyya gave birth to the last of the bunch, Sulayman. He grew at an extraordinary rate and reminded his father of Ashur. He decided to educate him to be chief of the clan and a worthy successor to al-Nagi.

  Despite his lapses Shams al-Din retained unchallenged his hold on the alley. His prestige and his advanced years did not deter him from working as a carter and protecting the interests of the harafish with compassion, justice, and love. He was known for his piety and devotion and the sincerity of his faith. The people forgot his past errors and extolled his merits and the name of al-Nagi became synonymous with goodness, happiness, and firm rule.

  39.

  The cart glides along discreetly, garlanded with flowers. No one notices the creaking of its wheels. People only hear what they want to hear. The powerful believe they are joined in eternal union with the world. But the cart never stops and the world is an unfaithful spouse.

  40.

  Agamiyya went on putting henna on her hair. She had started to go gray when she was fifty and by the time she reached her sixties there was not a single black hair left on her head. The henna gave her hair moisture, like dew at twilight, and added a fine proud warmth to it. She was still strong, brimming with vitality, never slacking, working all the hours of daylight and sometimes by moonlight too. Her fresh bloom had not left her and with the passing of time she had grown superbly plump. There was nothing about her strong frame to give rise to alarm.

  Noticing the henna powder one day Shams al-Din said teasingly to her, “What’s the point of trying to hide it, my lady?”

  “If gray hair’s really a sign of old age,” she retorted, “why’s your hair still black?”

  Coal-black hair and a physique composed of beauty, strength, and grace—she felt boundless love and admiration for him, tinged with fear and jealousy. He had never taken a second wife and had only been unfaithful once or twice with a woman the age of his mother. But who knew what the future had in store?

  41.

  One morning as he was combing his hair Agamiyya suddenly stared hard at his head and with ill-concealed joy exclaimed, “A white hair!”

  He turned toward her, suddenly alert, as he would turn when the signal for battle was given. He shot her an irritated look, and she said, “I swear it was a white hair.”

  He squinted into the little mirror he held in his hand. “Liar,” he muttered uncertainly.

  She approached him, eyes fixed on her goal like a cat stalking a mouse, detached a single hair from his abundant crop, and pronounced triumphantly, “There it is.”

  He examined his hair in the mirror again. There was nothing he could do, no point resisting. It was as if he had been caught doing something wrong. Like years and years ago when he was sneaking into Ayyusha’s basement. His heart filled with anger, resentment, and shame. He avoided meeting her eyes. “So what?” he said scornfully. “You’re just jealous!”

  42.

  This episode did not simply pass harmlessly into oblivion, as Agamiyya had expected. He made a thorough examination of his head every morning after that and she regretted opening her mouth.

  “Having gray hair doesn’t mean you’re not strong and healthy,” she said soothingly.

  But he began to wonder about his age. How had he got so old? Where had all the time gone? Wasn’t it only yesterday he had defeated Ghassan? How was it Dahshan had already gone senile and started to walk like a small child? What good was a chief who had lost his strength?

  “All we can do is pray God we keep healthy,” went on Agamiyya.

  “Why do you keep repeating these meaningless clichés?” he asked in exasperation.

  She laughed, trying to soften the effect of his anger, and said, “There’s nothing wrong with men dyeing their hair.”

  “I’m not completely stupid!” he exclaimed.

  For the first time he began to brood on what was past and what was to come. He thought about people who had died, about saints who had lived for a thousand years. About the processes of decay which turn strong men into objects of ridicule. Betrayal was not only caused by spiritual weakness or the acts of men. It was easier by far to wreck an armed parade than to unsay things that should never have been said. You could rebuild a ruined house, but not a human being. The pleasure of the music is only a short-lived veneer on the song of parting.

  He wrapped his headcloth around his head and
asked her, “Do you know what I’d pray for?”

  When she was silent he said, “People to die before they get old.”

  43.

  After he had gone out Agamiyya said to herself that all people could do was have faith.

  When she was told that her father had died she shrieked so loudly that the window bars shook.

  44.

  She wept bitterly for her father. She used to say that a person who has lived for a long time becomes a precious habit, without which life is hard to imagine. Shams al-Din grieved for the loss of a friend who had been his father’s friend before him, but it was the death of the wood merchant, Antar, which upset him most. Antar was roughly his own age, his generation, and his health had deteriorated rapidly after a sudden stroke. However, death did not concern him as much as old age and frailty. He hated the idea of beating all the other clan chiefs only to succumb helplessly to the mysterious sorrow of age.

  “Wasn’t Ashur al-Nagi lucky simply to vanish at the height of his powers?” he marveled.

  45.

  As he sat in the café a friendly struggle took place under his nose between his son, Sulayman, and another youth in the clan called Atris. For the first few minutes their strength and skill were perfectly matched, but eventually Sulayman came through and beat his friend.

  Shams al-Din seethed with anger. He found it intolerable that Atris had held out against Sulayman for more than a few seconds and took no pleasure in his victory. Sulayman was strong enough, being the same build as Ashur, but had none of his agility and skill.

  46.

  Shams al-Din took Sulayman up onto the roof of their building and stripped down to his loincloth. He stood bathed in the golden rays of the setting sun. “Now you do the same,” he said.

  “Why, father?” asked the boy hesitantly.

  “Because I say so.”

  They stood face-to-face, Shams al-Din strong and graceful, Sulayman built like a giant, the living image of Ashur.

  “Now fight me with all the strength you’ve got,” ordered Shams al-Din.

  “Spare me the shame.”

  “Come on! You’ll find out strength isn’t everything.”

  He grabbed hold of him with force and persistence. They grappled, their muscles bulging.