Midaq Alley by Naguib Mahfouz


  “Sanker, change the water in the pipes!” That was the voice of that filthy hashish addict Kirsha. “Oh, sir, may our Lord give her her just desserts.” That was that dumb brute Uncle Kamil. “So what? Everything has its cause.” That was that bleary-eyed, dirty Dr. Booshy. Suddenly, she had a vision of her lover in his usual seat between Kirsha and Sheikh Darwish, blowing kisses at her, and her heart throbbed violently. Her mind produced a picture of that apartment building and that luxurious room and she could hear his voice ringing in her ears as he whispered, “You will come back to me…” Oh God, when would sleep have pity on her?

  “Peace be upon you all, brothers.” That was the voice of Radwan Hussainy, who advised her mother to refuse the hand of Salim Alwan before he had been struck ill. What would he say tomorrow when the news reached him? Let him say what he liked; curses on all the alley people! Her insomnia became a wrestling match and almost a sickness as she lay there turning from side to back, to front. So the long night slowly passed, oppressive and exhausting. The decisive importance of tomorrow made her sleeplessness all the more painful.

  A little before dawn a deep sleep settled over her, but she woke again at daybreak. Suddenly her thoughts all rushed back to her, as though they had been awake long before she was. Now she felt no indecision and merely asked herself impatiently how long it would be before sunset. She told herself she was now merely a passing visitor in the alley, she was no longer part of it, or it a part of her, just as her lover had said. She rose and opened the window, folded her mother’s mattress and piled it into one corner. Then she swept the flat and washed the outer hall floor. She ate her breakfast alone, for her mother had left the house to attend to her endless affairs. Hamida then went to the kitchen and found a bowl of lentils, which her mother had left her to cook for their lunch. She set about picking them over and washing them, lit the stove, and stood talking to herself. “This is the last time I will do any cooking in this house…perhaps it’s the last time in my life I will do any cooking. When will I ever eat lentils again?” It wasn’t that she disliked lentils, but she knew they were the staple food of the poor. Not that she really knew anything about what rich people ate, except that it was meat and meat and meat.


  Her mind set to work imagining her future food and how she would dress and adorn herself, her face beaming at the delightful dreamy thoughts. At noon she left the kitchen and took a bath. She combed her hair slowly and carefully and twisted it into a long thick pigtail that reached down to the lower part of her thighs. She put on her best clothes, but the shoddy appearance of her underwear embarrassed her and her bronze face turned red. She wondered how she could possibly go off to him as a bride dressed in clothes like these, and her face went pale again at the thought. Hamida made up her mind not to give herself to him until she had exchanged these shabby clothes for pretty new ones. This idea appealed to her, and all of a sudden she was filled with joy and passion.

  She stood at the window, gazing down in farewell at the quarter where she had lived, her eyes moving quickly from spot to spot; the bakery, Kirsha’s café, Uncle Kamil’s shop, the barbershop, Salim Alwan’s business premises, and Radwan Hussainy’s house. Everywhere she looked memories flamed before her, like flares set alight by the matches of her imagination.

  Surprising though it seems, Hamida stood there all this time cold and resolute, feeling not the slightest love or affection for either the alley or its inhabitants. The bonds of neighborliness and friendship were quite broken between her and the majority of the other women of the neighborhood; people like Mrs. Kirsha, who had suckled her, and the bakeress. Even the wife of Radwan Hussainy was not spared the sting of her tongue.

  One day she learned that the woman had described her as foulmouthed. Hamida watched closely until a day when Mrs. Hassainy went to the roof of her house to hang her washing. Like a flash, Hamida climbed to her own roof, which adjoined the Hussainys’, and climbed to the intervening wall to confront her. She shouted in scornful sarcasm, “Oh, what a pity, Hamida, that you have such a foul mouth! You are unfit to live among the fine ladies of the alley, daughters of pashas that they are!” Mrs. Hussainy preferred to keep her peace and took refuge in silence.

  Hamida’s eyes rested long on Alwan’s office as she recalled how he had asked her to marry him and how she had remained drunk with dreams of riches, for a day and a half. How she had burned with regret at having to let him slip through her fingers! But then, what an amazing difference there could be between one man and another. Even though Salim Alwan had, with all his wealth, moved one side of her heart, this other man had moved it completely, so that he had almost plucked it whole. Her eyes moved on to the barbershop and she remembered Abbas. She wondered what he would do when he came back one day and found no trace of her? At the thought of their last parting on the stairs, her heart almost stopped, and she wondered how on earth she could have given him her lips to kiss.

  She turned on her heels and moved to the sofa, even more determined and resolute than before. At noon her foster mother returned and they ate lunch together. During the meal Umm Hamida said to her daughter, “I’m trying to arrange a wonderful marriage. If I can bring it off, then God will have made our future secure.” Hamida asked indifferently about this marriage, not really paying any attention to what was said. Many times Umm Hamida had said this sort of thing and all it produced was a few pounds and some meat to eat.

  When her mother lay down for a nap after lunch, Hamida sat on the sofa looking at her. This was the day she was to say goodbye forever; she would probably never again set eyes on her foster mother. For the first time she felt weak at the thought. Her heart went out to the woman who had sheltered and loved her and been the only mother she had known. Hamida wished she could at least kiss her goodbye.

  Late afternoon came and she wrapped herself in her cloak and put on her slippers, her hands trembling with emotion, her heart thumping violently. There was nothing to do but leave her mother without saying a proper goodbye. She was unhappy at the thought as she looked at the woman lying blissfully unaware of what the next day would bring. It was time to leave and Hamida gazed at her mother and spoke: “Goodbye, then…”

  “Goodbye,” Umm Hamida replied, “don’t be late.”

  As she left that flat, her face showed strain and, disregarding all, she moved through the alley for the last time. From Sanadiqiya, she walked into Ghouriya and then turned off toward New Street. She walked at a measured pace. Eventually after some hesitation and apprehension she looked up and saw him waiting exactly where he had been the day before. Her cheeks burned as a strong wave of rebellion and anger swept through her. She longed to have her revenge on him and thus regain her peace of mind. She lowered her gaze but then wondered if he was now smiling in that insolent way of his. Nervously she lifted her eyes and found him quiet and serious, his almond-shaped eyes merely expressing hope and concern. Her anger subsided and she walked past him, expecting that he would speak or take her hand as he had done the previous day. Instead, he pretended to ignore her and she hurried on until a bend in the street hid her from sight. Then he slowly set out after her. Now she realized that he was being more cautious and treating the whole affair in a more serious manner. She walked on until she almost reached the end of New Street. Suddenly she stopped, as if she had just remembered something. She turned on her heels and started walking back and he followed her anxiously. He whispered, “Why have you turned back?”

  She hesitated, then said uneasily, “The factory girls…”

  Relieved at this reply, he suggested, “Let’s go into Azhar Street, no one will see us.”

  Still keeping their distance, they made their way in complete silence down Azhar Street. Hamida realized that, by saying what she did, she had announced her final surrender. They arrived at Queen Farida Square without saying a word. Because she did not know where to go now, she stopped. She heard him call a taxi and suddenly he opened the door for her to enter. She raised a foot to step in and that one movement mar
ked the dividing point between her two lives.

  The car had scarcely begun to move when in a trembling voice he said with consummate skill,

  “God only knows how much I have suffered, Hamida…I didn’t sleep a single hour all last night. You, my darling, don’t know what love is. Anyway, today I feel happy. No, I am almost mad with joy. How can I believe my eyes? Thank you, my love, thank you. I will make rivers of happiness flow beneath your feet. How magnificent diamonds will look around your neck!” (He stroked it gently.) “How beautiful gold will look on your arm!” (He kissed it.) “How marvelous lipstick will look on your lips!” (He moved his head toward her trying to kiss her, but she prevented him and he kissed her cheek instead.) “Oh, what a shy temptress you are!”

  After a moment he got his breath back and went on, a smile on his lips: “Say farewell now to your days of hardship! From now on nothing will cause you discomfort…Why, even your breasts will be held away from you by supports of silk!”

  She was delighted to hear all this and felt not a trace of anger, even though she did blush. She yielded her body submissively to the movement of the taxi, carrying her away from her past life. The car stopped before the building that was to be her home. She stepped out and they walked quickly up to the apartment. It was just as it had been the day before, filled with voices coming from behind the closed doors. They went into the luxurious room and he said, laughing, “Take off your cloak and we will both burn it.”

  Her face red, Hamida mumbled, “I didn’t bring my clothes with me.”

  “Well done,” he shouted happily. “You’ll need nothing from the past.”

  He sat her down in an armchair and walked to and fro across the room. Then he turned toward an elegant door beside a tall mirror and pushed it open, revealing a most attractive bedroom.

  “Our room,” he said.

  Hamida at once replied resolutely, “Oh no…oh no…I am going to sleep here.”

  He looked at her piercingly and then replied resignedly, “No, you will sleep inside and I will sleep here.”

  She made up her mind that she was not going to be taken like a sheep. She had no intention of submitting until she had satisfied her desire to be stubborn and difficult.

  It was obvious he sensed this, for he smiled ironically to express his resigned submission. Then he spoke with pride and delight: “Yesterday, my darling, you called me a pimp. Now allow me to present my true self to you. Your lover is the headmaster of a school, and you will learn everything when the time comes.”

  Talking to himself as he approached Midaq Alley, Hussain Kirsha muttered, “This is the time when everyone meets in the café and they are all bound to see me. Even if my father is too blind to notice me, they will soon tell him I’m back.” Night was drawing in now and the alley shops were all locked and silent, the only noise coming from the men chatting in Kirsha’s café. The young man walked slowly and heavily, his face scowling and his spirits low. Close behind him followed a young woman, about his own age. Hussain wore a shirt and trousers and carried a large suitcase just like the young man who followed him. The girl walked along daintily in a pretty dress, wearing neither coat nor cloak. She had an appealing air as she minced along, although something about her revealed her low class.

  Hussain made his way straight toward the house owned by Radwan Hussainy and went in, followed by his two companions, without glancing at the café. They climbed the stairs to the third floor, and Hussain, now frowning intensely, knocked on the door of his parents’ home. He heard footsteps and then the door opened and his mother appeared. “Who is it?” she asked in her coarse voice, the darkness obscuring the figure before her.

  Her son answered quietly, “It’s me, Hussain.”

  “Hussain! My son!” shouted Mrs. Kirsha, unable to believe her ears. She rushed toward him, took him by the arms, and kissed him, saying fervently, “You have come back, my son! Praise be to God…praise be to God, who has brought you back to your senses and protected you from the devil’s temptations. Come in, this is your home.” She laughed hysterically. “Do come in, you truant…What a lot of sleepless nights and worry you have given me.”

  Hussain came in submissively, still scowling. Her enthusiastic welcome had done nothing to cheer him. As she moved to close the door behind him, Hussain stopped her, making way for the couple who had been following him. “I have some people with me. Come in, Sayyida. You too, Abdu. This is my wife, Mother, and this is her brother.”

  His mother was stunned, and her eyes showed that she was more than a little annoyed. She stood gazing in astonishment at the newcomers and then overcame her feelings long enough to shake the hand extended to her. Unaware of what she was saying, she spoke to her son: “So you got married, Hussain! Welcome to the bride. But you married without letting us know! How could you have taken a bride without your parents being there, especially since they are still alive?”

  Hussain burst out, “Satan is so clever! I was angry, rebellious, and full of scorn…Everything is fate and chance!”

  His mother took a lamp from the wall and led them into the reception room. She put the lamp on the sill of the closed window and stood gazing into the face of her son’s wife.

  The young woman said wistfully, “It really made us sad that you couldn’t be there, but there was nothing that could be done.”

  Her brother too expressed his regret. Mrs. Kirsha smiled, not yet recovered from her astonishment. She muttered, “Welcome to you all.”

  She then turned to her son, upset at his obvious unhappiness. Now she realized for the first time that he had not uttered a single pleasant word since his arrival. Reproachfully, she commented, “So at last you have remembered us.”

  Hussain shook his head and answered gloomily, “They have laid me off.”

  “Laid you off? Do you mean you are out of work?”

  Before he could reply, their ears were assailed by a loud knocking on the door. Hussain and his mother exchanged meaningful looks and then she left the room followed by her son, who closed the door after him. In the hall, Hussain spoke: “It must be my father.”

  “I think it is,” she said anxiously. “Did he see you? I mean, did he see you three, as you came in?”

  Her son, instead of replying, opened the door, and Kirsha came charging in. As soon as he saw his son his eyes shot sparks and his face contorted with rage. “So it’s you? They told me, but I couldn’t believe it. Why have you come back?”

  Hussain replied quietly, “There are guests in the house. Please come to your room, where we can talk.”

  The young man moved quickly to his father’s room, and Kirsha followed, still fuming. Mrs. Kirsha joined them and lit the lamp, saying hopefully and warningly to her husband, “Listen, my husband. Your son’s wife and her brother are in the other room…”

  The man’s heavy eyebrows rose in astonishment and he bellowed, “What are you saying, woman? Has he really got married?”

  Hussain, annoyed that his mother had released the news so abruptly and without introduction, thought it wisest to answer himself. “Yes, Father, I am married.”

  Kirsha stood silently, grinding his teeth with rage. Not for a moment did he consider criticizing his son, for criticism would, in his opinion, imply a kind of affection. He determined to ignore the news. His voice full of rage and contempt, he said, “That doesn’t interest me in the slightest. However, allow me to ask why you have returned to my house? Why are you now showing your face to me after God has given me a merciful relief from it?”

  Hussain took refuge in silence, bowing his head and frowning. His mother, attempting to pacify Kirsha, said in her shrill voice, “They have laid him off.”

  Once again Hussain inwardly criticized his mother for being too precipitate. As for Kirsha, what his wife said only increased his rage, and he shouted in a voice so loud and threatening that his wife hurriedly shut the door, “They’ve laid you off? Well, what next? And is my home an almshouse? Didn’t you desert us, you hero? Didn’t you
bite me with your fangs, you son of a bitch? Why are you back now? Get out of my sight! Go back to your ‘clean life’ and your water and electricity. Go on. Hurry!”

  Hussain’s mother spoke quietly: “Please quiet down. Say a prayer for the Prophet…”

  Kirsha turned toward her menacingly, his clenched fist raised, and yelled, “Are you defending him, you daughter of the devils? You all need a good whipping and punishing in hellfire. What do you want, then, you mother of all evil? Do you think I should give shelter to him and his family? Have people told you I am some sort of pimp who gets money from everywhere without trouble or effort? Oh no! You might as well know the police are hovering around us; only yesterday they took four of my colleagues. Your future looks black, with God’s permission!”

  Mrs. Kirsha thought patience the best course to follow and so she said in a manner unusually gentle for her, “Say a prayer for the Prophet and affirm your faith in the Oneness of God.”

  Kirsha shouted roughly, “Am I to forget what he did?”

  “Our son is headstrong and foolish,” she replied, trying to pacify him. “The devil took a fancy to him and led him astray. You are the only person he has to turn to now.”

  “You’re right,” shouted her husband, full of angry scorn. “I’m the only person he can turn to, me, the one he curses when all seems well and crawls to when things get bad.”

  He turned and gazed hard and straight at Hussain and asked reproachfully, “Why did they fire you?”

  Mrs. Kirsha sighed deeply. She knew instinctively that this question, despite the bitter tone, was a hopeful sign of reconciliation. Hussain replied quietly, feeling the bitterness of complete defeat, “They laid off many others besides. They say the war will end soon…”

  “It may be finished on the battlefields, but it’s only beginning in my own house! Why didn’t you go to your wife’s parents?”

 
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