Midaq Alley by Naguib Mahfouz
“She has no one but her brother,” answered Hussain, looking down.
“Why didn’t you go to him for help?”
“He has been laid off too.”
Kirsha laughed sarcastically. “Welcome! Welcome! It’s only natural that you could find no other refuge for this fate-struck noble family except my two-room house! Well done indeed! Well done…Didn’t you save any money?”
Sighing, Hussain replied sadly, “No, I didn’t.”
“You’ve done well indeed. You lived like a king with electricity, water, and entertainment and now you’re back a beggar, just as you were when you left.”
Hussain answered indignantly, “They said the war would never end and that Hitler would fight for decades and then eventually attack.”
“But he hasn’t attacked; instead he has disappeared, leaving the biggest fool alive empty-handed! His lordship is Madam’s brother?”
“That’s the situation.”
“Splendid…splendid. Your father is most honored. Get the house ready for them, Mrs. Kirsha, humble and inadequate though it is. I will improve the situation by installing running water and electricity. Why, I’ll probably even buy Mr. Alwan’s carriage for them.”
Hussain blew out air and said,
“That’s enough, Father…that’s enough…”
Kirsha looked at him almost apologetically and continued in a sarcastic tone: “Don’t be angry with me. Have I upset you? It was only a little joke. All glory and honor to you. Have mercy on these fine people down on their luck. Be more careful, Kirsha, and speak respectfully to these respectable people…Do take off your coats. As for you, Mrs. Kirsha, open up the treasure we keep in the lavatory and give the gentleman enough to make him rich and cheer him up.”
Hussain stifled his anger without saying a word and thus the storm passed. Mrs. Kirsha stood there saying to herself, “O Protector, protect us.” Kirsha, in spite of his rage and sarcasm, had no intention of driving Hussain away. All during this scene he was pleased at his son’s return and delighted with his marriage. Eventually he simmered down and muttered, “The matter is in God’s hands. May God grant me peace from you all.” He turned to his son. “What are your plans for the future?”
Realizing that he had survived the worst of the ordeal, Hussain replied, “I hope to find work and I still have my wife’s jewelry.”
His mother pricked up her ears at the word “jewelry” and she asked, almost automatically, “Did you buy it for her?”
“I gave her some. Her brother bought her the rest.” Turning toward his father, he went on: “I’ll find work and so will my brother-in-law, Abdu. In any case, he will only be staying with us for a few days.”
Mrs. Kirsha made use of the lull after the storm to address her husband: “Come along, then, and meet your son’s family.”
She winked secretly at her son, and Hussain, with all the awkwardness of one who disliked being friendly or conciliatory, asked, “Would you honor me by meeting my family?”
Kirsha hesitated then said indignantly, “How can you ask me to recognize this marriage to which I didn’t give my blessing?”
When he heard no reply, he rose grumbling, and his wife opened the door for him. They all moved into the other room, where introductions were made and Kirsha welcomed his son’s wife and her brother. Their faces lit up at the welcome and the courtesies exchanged, their hearts concealing what they each really felt.
Kirsha remained apprehensive, not knowing whether his submission would prove wise or foolish. During the conversation his sleepy eyes settled on the bride’s brother and he examined him carefully. At once he was overcome by a sudden interest, which made him forget his irritation and hostility. He was young, bright, and good-looking. Kirsha set about engaging him in conversation, moving as close as possible, his eyes wide with interest. He felt happy indeed and could sense a tremor of delight stirring deep within him. He opened his heart to the new family and bid them welcome, this time with genuine enthusiasm. Kirsha asked his son gently, “Don’t you have any luggage, Hussain?”
“Just some bedroom furniture stored with neighbors,” he replied.
“Go and get your things, then!” Kirsha told him imperiously.
—
Some time later, when Hussain sat talking with his mother and making plans, she suddenly turned to him and exclaimed, “Do you know what’s happened? Hamida has disappeared!”
Astonishment showed in his face as he asked, “What do you mean?”
Making no attempt to conceal her scorn, Mrs. Kirsha replied, “She went out as usual in the late afternoon the day before yesterday, and didn’t come back again. Her mother went to all the houses in the neighborhood and to all her friends, searching for her, but it was no use. Then she went to the police station at Gamaliya and to Kasr el-Aini Hospital, but there was no trace of her.”
“What do you think happened to her?”
His mother shook her head doubtfully but said with conviction, “She has run away, you can bet your life! Some man has seduced her, taken possession of her senses, and run off with her. She was pretty, but she was never any good.”
Hamida opened her eyes, red with sleep, and saw a white, a pure white ceiling above her, in the middle of which hung a splendid electric light within a large red ball of transparent crystal. The sight astonished her, but only for a moment, and then memories of the past night and of the new life rushed to her mind. She looked at the door and saw it was closed and noticed that the key was still where she had left it, on a table near her bed. As she had wished, she had slept alone while he slept alone in the outer room. Her lips spread in a smile and she threw back the soft coverlets from her body, revealing a nightdress trimmed with silk and velvet. What a deep chasm now separated her from her past life!
The windows were still closed, allowing a little of the sun’s glare to penetrate and bathe the room in a soft, subdued light, showing that the morning was well advanced. Hamida was not surprised that she had slept so late, for insomnia had tormented her until just before dawn. She heard a quiet tap on the door and turned toward it in annoyance. Her gaze fixed on the door, she remained motionless and silent. Then she got out of bed and went to the dressing table, standing there in astonishment gazing at the mirrors surrounding it.
The knocking started again, this time more loudly. She shouted, “Who is it?”
His deep voice answered, “Good morning. Why don’t you open the door?”
Looking into a mirror, she saw that her hair was untidy, her eyes red, and her eyelids heavy. Good heavens! Was there no water to wash her face? Couldn’t he wait until she was ready to receive him? Now he was knocking impatiently, but she paid no attention. She was recalling how upset she had been that first time in Darasa Street when he appeared unexpectedly and she had neglected to tidy herself properly. Today she was even more anxious and upset. She looked at the bottles of perfume on the dressing table, but as this was the first time in her life she had seen them, they could not solve her problem. She picked up an ivory comb and hurriedly ran it through her hair. With a corner of her nightdress she wiped her face, glanced again into the mirror, and sighed in angry exasperation. Then she picked up the key and went to the door. She was annoyed at being inconvenienced like this, and she shook her shoulders indifferently as she opened the door.
They met face to face and he smiled pleasantly. He greeted her politely, “Good morning, Titi! Why have you neglected me all this time? Do you want to spend all day as well as all night away from me?”
Without saying a word she backed away from him. He followed her, the smile still on his lips. Then he asked, “Why don’t you say something, Titi?”
Titi! Was this some term of affection? Her mother had called her Hamadmad when she had wanted to tease her, but what was this Titi business? She stared at him in disbelief and muttered, “Titi?”
Taking her hands and covering them with kisses, he replied, “That’s your new name. Keep it and forget Hamida, for she has ceased
She realized that he considered her name, like her old clothes, as something to be discarded and forgotten. Hamida saw nothing wrong in that; it didn’t seem right that in Sharif Pasha she should be called what she had been called in Midaq Alley. After all, her connections with the past were now cut forever, so why should she retain her name? Now, if only she could exchange her ugly hands for beautiful ones like his and trade her shrill and coarse voice for a nice soft one. But why had he chosen this strange name?
“It’s a silly name; it doesn’t mean anything.”
“It’s a beautiful name,” he replied, laughing. “Part of its beauty is that it has no meaning and a word without meaning can mean almost anything. As a matter of fact, it’s an ancient name that will amuse Englishmen and Americans and one which their twisted tongues can easily pronounce.”
A look of bewilderment and suspicion came into Hamida’s eyes. He smiled and went on: “My darling Titi…relax…you’ll know everything in good time. Do you realize that tomorrow you will be a lady of dazzling beauty and fame? This house will perform that miracle. Did you think the heavens would rain down gold and diamonds? Oh no; they rain only bombs! Now get ready to meet the dressmaker. Excuse me, I just remembered something important. I must take you to our school. I am a headmaster, my darling, not a pimp as you called me yesterday. Wear this robe and put on these slippers.”
He went to the dressing table and returned with a sparkling crystal bottle with a metal rim from which extended a red rubber tube. He pointed it at her and squeezed the bulb, spraying a heady perfume around her face. At first she trembled, then she inhaled deeply and relaxed, startled yet enjoying the sensation. He put the robe gently around her and brought her slippers to put on. Then he led her into the outer hall. They walked together to the first door on the right as he whispered, “Try not to look shy or nervous. I know you’re a brave girl and not afraid of anything.”
His warning brought her to her senses; she stared hard at him, then gave a shrug of indifference.
“This is the first class in the school,” he continued, “the department of Oriental dancing.”
He opened the door and they entered. She saw a medium-sized room with a polished wooden floor. It was almost empty except for a number of chairs stacked on the left and a large clothes stand in one corner. Two girls sat on chairs next to one another, and in the middle of the room stood a young man in a billowing white silk gown with a sash tied around his waist. Their heads turned toward the new arrivals and they all smiled in greeting. Ibrahim Faraj called out in an authoritative tone that showed he was their master, “Good morning…this is my friend Titi.”
The two girls nodded their heads, and the young man replied in a thin effeminate voice, “Welcome, mademoiselle.”
Titi returned the greeting in some bewilderment, staring hard at the odd young man. His modest, shy expression and crossed eyes made him appear younger than his thirty-odd years. He wore heavy makeup and his curly hair gleamed with Vaseline. Ibrahim Faraj smiled and introduced him to her. “This is Susu, the dancing instructor.”
Susu appeared to want to introduce himself in his own fashion, for he winked at the seated girls and they began clapping in unison. The instructor then broke into a dance with astonishing grace and lightness. Every part of his body was in motion, from eyebrows to toes. All the time he gazed straight ahead with a languid expression on his face, smiling wantonly and exposing his gold teeth. Finally he ended his performance with an abrupt quiver. He straightened his back and the two girls stopped clapping. Thus the instructor’s special welcome to the new girl was over. He turned to Ibrahim Faraj and asked, “A new pupil?”
“I think so,” he answered as he glanced at Titi.
“Has she ever danced before?”
“No, never.”
Susu seemed delighted. “That’s marvelous, Mr. Ibrahim. If she doesn’t know how to dance I can mold her as I wish. Girls who are taught the wrong dancing principles are very difficult to teach.”
He looked at Titi, then turned his neck right and left and said challengingly, “Or do you consider dancing just a game, my pet? I’m sorry, darling, but dancing is the art of all arts, and those who master it are richly rewarded for their efforts. Look…”
He suddenly began making his waist shake with incredible speed. He stopped, then asked her gently, “Why don’t you take off your robe so I can see your body.”
Ibrahim Faraj interrupted him quickly. “Not now…not now.”
Susu pouted and asked, “Are you shy with me, Titi? Why, I’m only your sister Susu! Didn’t you like my dance?”
She fought her embarrassment and tried to appear calm and indifferent. “Your dance was marvelous, Susu,” she said, smiling.
The instructor clapped his hands and executed a brief dance step.
“What a nice girl you are,” he exclaimed. “Life’s most beautiful thing is a kind word. Does anything else last? One buys a jar of Vaseline and one never knows whether it will be for oneself or for one’s heirs!”
—
They left the room, or rather the “department,” and went into the corridor again. He then led her to the next room, feeling her eyes staring at him. They reached the door, and he whispered, “The department of Western dancing.”
Hamida followed him inside. She now knew that retreat was impossible and that the past was completely erased. She was resigned to her fate; nevertheless, she wondered where happiness lay.
In size and decor the room was similar to the previous one, except that it was alive with noise and movement. A phonograph played music that was both strange and unpleasant to her ears. The room was filled with girls dancing together, and a well-dressed young man stood at one side, watching them closely and making comments. The two men exchanged greetings and the girls continued dancing, eyeing Hamida critically. Her eyes feasted on the room and the dancing girls, and she was dazzled by their beautiful clothes and skilled makeup. Now her feelings of longing and envy were mixed with those of humility. She turned toward Ibrahim Faraj and found him looking sedate and calm. His eyes radiated both superiority and power, and his face broadened into a smile as he turned and asked, “Do you like what you have seen?”
“Very much.”
“Which type of dancing do you prefer?”
She smiled, but did not answer. They remained watching in silence and then left and went toward a third door. He had scarcely opened the door when she was staring wide-eyed in embarrassed amazement. In the middle of the room she saw a woman standing naked. Hamida stood frozen, unable to take her eyes off the spectacle. The naked woman stood looking at them calmly and boldly, her mouth parted slightly as though greeting them, or rather him. Then voices suddenly made her realize that there were other people in the room. To the left of the entrance door she saw a row of chairs, half of them occupied by beautiful girls either half dressed or almost naked. Near the nude woman stood a man in a smart suit holding a pointer, its end resting on the tip of his shoes. Ibrahim Faraj noticed Hamida’s confusion and reassuringly volunteered, “This department teaches the principles of the English language…!”
Her look of utter bewilderment prompted him to make a gesture as though asking her to be patient. He then addressed the man holding the pointer. “Go on with the class, Professor.”
In a compliant tone the man announced, “This is the recitation class.”
Slowly he touched the naked woman’s hair with the pointer. With a strange accent the woman spoke the word “hair.” The pointer touched her forehead and she replied with “forehead.” He then moved on to her eyebrows, eyes, her mouth, and then east and west and up and down. To each of his silent questions the woman uttered a strange word which Hamida had never heard before. Hamida asked herself how this woman could stand naked before all these people and how Ibrahim Faraj could look at her uncloth
The teacher approached the woman speaking in English, and she replied phrase by phrase in English until Ibrahim Faraj interrupted. “Very good. Very good indeed. And the other girls?” he asked, gesturing toward the girls sitting on the chairs.
“Oh, they’re getting better,” he replied. “I keep telling them they can’t learn a language just by memorizing words and phrases. The only way to learn is by experience. The taverns and hotels are the best schools. My lessons merely clarify information which may be muddled.”
Gazing over at his girls, Faraj agreed. “You are right, quite right.”
He nodded goodbye, took Hamida’s arm, and they left the room together, walking down the long corridor toward their two rooms. Hamida’s jaw was set and her eyes reflected her mind’s confusion. She felt an urge to explode, just to relieve her disturbed feelings. He kept silent until they were inside the room, and then he spoke softly: “Well, I’m pleased that you have seen the school and its departments. I suppose you thought the curriculum a rather difficult one? Now you have seen the school’s pupils and all of them, without exception, are less intelligent, less beautiful than you.”
She shot a stubborn, challenging glance at him and asked coldly, “Do you think I am going to do the same as they?”
He smiled and patted her on the shoulder. Then he spoke: “No one has power over you and no one wants to force you into anything. You must make up your own mind. However, it is my duty to give you the facts and then the choice is yours. What luck that I found such an intelligent partner whom God has endowed with both determination and beauty. Today I tried to inspire your courage. Tomorrow, perhaps, you will give me inspiration. I know you quite well now. I can read your heart like a sheet of paper. I can say to you now in all confidence that you will agree to learn dancing and English and master everything in the shortest possible time. From the beginning I’ve been honest with you. I have refrained from lies and deception because I have quite honestly fallen in love with you. When we met, I knew you could never be mastered or deceived. Do what you like, my darling. Try the dancing or decide against it, be brave or not, stay or return. In any case, I have no power over you.”