Midaq Alley by Naguib Mahfouz
He seated Abbas close to him and chatted amiably, asking about his living conditions and avoiding any mention of the girl. Abbas was pleased with the man’s kindness and thanked him profusely. Trusting in Alwan’s sympathy completely, Abbas told him everything, while the businessman gazed at him hollow-eyed.
Soon after Hamida’s disappearance something happened which, although probably trivial, is still remembered in the annals of Midaq Alley.
Early one morning Salim Alwan was on his way to his office when he met Sheikh Darwish going in the opposite direction. In the old days, Alwan had been very fond of Sheikh Darwish and had often demonstrated this with gifts. After his illness, however, Alwan had completely ignored the old man. When they met near the office, Sheikh Darwish shouted out, as though to himself, “Hamida has disappeared.”
This took Alwan by surprise, and he assumed Sheikh Darwish was addressing him. “What’s that got to do with me?”
“And she didn’t just disappear,” Sheikh Darwish continued, “she ran away. And she didn’t just run away; she ran away with a strange man. In English they call that an ‘elopement’ and it is spelled e-l-o-p…”
Before he could finish, Salim Alwan exploded, “It’s a cursed day for me when I see your face in the morning, you idiot! Get out of my sight, a curse of God on you!”
Sheikh Darwish stood as though bolted to the ground, and then a look like that of a terrified child came into his eyes. He burst out weeping. Mr. Alwan continued on his way, leaving Sheikh Darwish standing alone. His voice now rose to a near-scream until it reached Kirsha, Uncle Kamil, and the old barber; they all rushed up to him, asking what was wrong. They led him off to the café and sat him down in his armchair, doing their best to calm him. Kirsha ordered a glass of water, and Uncle Kamil patted him on the shoulder, saying sympathetically, “Put your faith in God, Sheikh Darwish. O God, keep us from evil. For you to weep is an omen of some misfortune to come…O God, give us grace!”
However, Sheikh Darwish kept on weeping and howling, his breath gasping and his limbs trembling. Then he shut his lips rigidly, pulled at his necktie, and stamped the ground with his wooden clogs. The windows of the houses were opening now and heads stared down at the scene. Husniya, the bakeress, was the first to appear in front of the shop. Eventually the wailing reached Salim Alwan in his office. He wished the old man would stop his wailing. In vain he tried to turn his attention to something else, but it seemed to Alwan that the whole world was weeping and wailing. If only he had not shouted at the saintly old man! If only he hadn’t crossed his path! He could have taken no notice of him and just passed politely on.
Alwan groaned in self-reproach. “A person as sick as you would be better off making peace with God, instead of angering one of His holy men.” He abandoned his pride and made his way to Kirsha’s café. Taking no notice of the surprised looks, he approached the weeping old man and placed his hand gently on his shoulder. “Forgive me, please, Sheikh Darwish.”
Abbas was in Uncle Kamil’s flat when there was a loud knock on the door. He opened it and found Hussain Kirsha standing there, dressed in a shirt and trousers, his small eyes glinting as usual. Hussain rushed at him in a frenzied greeting. “Why haven’t you come to see me? This is your second day back in the alley! How are you?”
Abbas held out his hand and smiled. “How are you, Hussain? Please don’t be annoyed with me, I’m very tired. I didn’t forget you and I was not trying to avoid you. Let’s go out and have a chat.”
They walked off together. Abbas had spent a sleepless night and a thoughtful morning. His head ached and his eyelids felt heavy. Scarcely a trace of the previous day’s bitter mood remained, and he now bore no thoughts of revenge. Instead, a deep sorrow and black despair had settled on him.
Hussain asked, “Did you know I left home soon after you went away?”
“Really?”
“Yes, I got married and started living a life of luxury and ease.”
Forcing himself to express more interest than he felt, Abbas answered, “Praise be to God…well done…splendid…splendid.”
They had now walked as far as Ghouriya, and Hussain stamped the ground with his foot and said resentfully, “On the contrary, everything in life is filth and corruption! They laid me off. There was nothing to do but return to Midaq Alley. Have they fired you too?”
“No. I was given a short holiday,” replied Abbas listlessly.
Hussain tried to keep the jealous note from showing in his voice. “I persuaded you to go away to work, and you resisted the idea. Remember? And there you are enjoying it while I’m out of a job.”
Abbas was probably more aware than anyone else of his friend’s jealous and spiteful nature. He replied, “Things are ending for us too, so they tell us.”
This cheered Hussain a bit and he asked, “How can the war end so quickly? Who would have believed it possible?”
Abbas shook his head. It made no difference to him whether the war continued or ended, or whether he worked or not. He no longer cared about anything. It bored him to talk with his friend, although he found it better than sitting alone thinking.
“How can it have ended so quickly?” asked Hussain. “Everybody hoped Hitler would be able to prolong it indefinitely. It’s our bad luck that’s brought it to an end.”
“You’re right…”
Hussain shouted furiously, “What hopeless wretches we are. Our country is pitiful and so are the people. Why is it that the only time we find a little happiness is when the world is involved in a bloody war? Surely it’s only the devil who has pity on us in this world!”
He stopped speaking as they made their way through the crowds coming from New Street. It was getting dark now.
“How I longed to be in combat,” sighed Hussain. “Just imagine what it would be like to be a heroic soldier, plunging from one glorious victory to the next. Imagine being in airplanes and tanks attacking and killing and then capturing the fleeing women; not to mention spending money, getting drunk, and raising hell. That’s the life! Don’t you wish you were a soldier?”
Everyone in the alley knew that Abbas was thrown into panic at the sound of a siren and he practically lived in the air-raid shelters. Be a combat soldier? He wished he had been born brave; he would have loved the life of a soldier, avenging himself on all those who had hurt him and spoiled his dream of happiness and a luxurious life. So he replied weakly, “Who wouldn’t like that?”
He turned his attention to the street and this brought tormenting thoughts to his mind. Oh God, would time ever erase memories of the alley from his heart? Here was where she walked; here was where she breathed this very air. He could almost see her straight slim figure walking before him now. How could he ever forget? He frowned at the thought of longing for someone so unworthy of his love. His face set in a look of vicious cruelty as a blast of the previous day’s feeling of betrayal returned to him. He would forget her. Otherwise his heart would burn itself out with fantasies of her resting blissfully in his rival’s arms. He cursed his soft treacherous heart. It had plotted against both his spirit and his body in loving someone who loved neither of these. Now it yielded him only suffering and humiliation.
He was awakened from his reverie by the harsh voice of Hussain. “Here’s the Jewish quarter.”
He brought Abbas to a stop with his hand and asked, “Don’t you know Vita’s bar? Didn’t you develop a liking for drink up there at Tell el-Kebir?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“How on earth did you live among the British and not drink? What a fool you are. Alcohol refreshes and is good for the brain. Come on…”
He tucked Abbas’ arm under his and led him into the Jewish quarter. Vita’s bar was not far from the entrance to the left, and it looked more like a shop. It was square and medium in size with a long marble-topped table stretching the length of one side, behind which stood Mr. Vita. On the wall behind the bar was a long shelf lined with bottles. Near the entrance door stood a large barrel. On the b
Hussain led his friend to an empty table at the back of the tavern, where they sat down. Abbas swung his eyes around the noisy, boisterous place in silent uneasiness until they rested on a boy of about fourteen. He was short and excessively fat; his face and cloak were covered with mud and his feet were bare. He stood in the middle of a crowd drinking from a full glass, his head rolling drunkenly from side to side. Abbas’ eyes bulged in astonishment, and he drew Hussain’s attention to the youth.
Hussain’s observation reflected no astonishment as he commented, “Oh, that’s Awkal. He sells newspapers all day and spends the evening drinking. He’s still just a boy. But there aren’t many grown men like him, don’t you agree?” Hussain leaned his head toward Abbas and went on: “A glass of wine provides a little pleasure for unemployed people like me. A month ago I was drinking whiskey in Vince’s bar, but times have changed. It’s all in the luck of the game.”
He ordered two glasses of wine, which the bartender brought along with a plate of bitter nuts. Abbas stared at his glass suspiciously and then spoke as if searching for comfort: “They say it’s bad for you.”
“Are you afraid of it?” asked Hussain, gripping his glass. “Let it kill you…In hell, my friend, nothing makes any difference. Your health.”
They clinked glasses, and Hussain downed his drink in one swallow. Abbas pushed his away in disgust. It was as though a tongue of flame had fired his throat. He screwed up his face and muttered, “Horrible. Bitter. Hot.”
Hussain laughed and spoke in a smug and superior tone: “Be brave, my boy. Life is much more bitter than this drink and its effects far worse…”
He lifted Abbas’ glass and placed it to his companion’s lips, saying, “Drink up and don’t spill it.” Abbas drained his glass and breathed out in a shudder. He felt a burning sensation in his stomach that rapidly spread throughout his body. With revulsion and interest he followed its course as it sped through his blood until it reached his head. The dark world seemed to have lightened a little now, and Hussain said to him sarcastically, “Be satisfied with only two drinks today.”
He ordered himself another glass and went on: “I’m staying at my father’s house. My wife and her brother are also there. But now my brother-in-law has a job at the arsenal and he’s leaving us today or tomorrow. My father wants me to run the café for three pounds a month. In other words, I’m supposed to work from dawn through half the night for only three pounds! But what can you say to a mad hashish addict? Now you can see why I’m beginning to hate the world. There’s only one answer to it: either have a life that suits you or to hell with it.”
Abbas was now enveloped in a cozy peacefulness that he found both surprising and delightful after his long day of gloomy thoughts.
“Didn’t you save any money?” he asked Hussain.
“No, not a penny. I was living in a nice clean flat in Wayliya. It had electricity and running water. I had a servant who called me ‘sir,’ and I went often to the cinema and the theater. I won a lot and I lost a lot, but that’s life. Our lives are getting shorter daily, so why keep money? Still, I suppose one needs money up until the end. I’ve only a few pounds left, apart from my wife’s jewelry.”
He clapped and ordered a third glass and continued: “Worst of all, my wife vomited last week…”
Pretending concern at the news, Abbas said, “Oh, that’s nothing to worry about, I hope.”
“Nothing to worry about, but not good either. It’s one of the signs of pregnancy, so my mother says. It’s almost as if the fetus could see the life awaiting it and wants to take out its feelings on the mother.”
Abbas could no longer follow him; he seemed to be talking too rapidly and foolishly. Suddenly, melancholy replaced the past hour of peacefulness. His companion noticed the change and spoke: “What’s up? You’re not listening to me…”
“Order me another drink,” replied Abbas abruptly.
Hussain was delighted to do so. He then looked quizzically at Abbas and spoke with some hesitation: “You’re worried about something and I know what it is.”
His companion’s heart beat wildly and he replied quickly, “Oh, it’s nothing. Tell me about yourself. I’m listening.”
“Hamida,” said Hussain with a note of contempt in his voice.
Abbas’ heart now beat as if he had swallowed another glass of the liquid fire. He felt betrayed and preyed upon at the same time. “Yes, Hamida. She ran away with some stranger.” His voice was not quite steady.
“Don’t be a fool and get too upset. Do you think life is any easier for men whose women don’t run away from them?”
A calm settled on the young man and he said, almost unconsciously, “What do you suppose she’s doing now?”
“No doubt what any woman does who goes off with a man,” replied Hussain with a laugh.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Your misery is ridiculous. Tell me, when did you hear that she had disappeared? Yesterday evening? By now you should have forgotten all about her.”
Just then Awkal, the drunken newsboy, did something that drew the attention of the seated men. He staggered toward the tavern entrance and stood at the door, his eyes half closed and his head bent back proudly. Suddenly he shouted, “I’m Awkal, the smartest fellow alive, the master of all men; I get drunk and feel great. Now I’m off to my beloved. Does anyone have any objections? Newspapers—the Ahram, the Misry, the Baakuuka…”
The boy disappeared from view, leaving a roar of laughter behind him. Hussain Kirsha spat fiercely on the spot where the lad had stood and let forth a torrent of blasphemy. Were the boy still within reach, he would have subjected him to physical violence, his hostility was so uncontrollable. He turned toward Abbas, who was gulping his second drink, and said defiantly, as though he had forgotten what they were discussing, “This is life. This is not a child’s game. We’ve got to live it. Do you understand?”
Abbas paid no attention. He was busy telling himself, “Hamida will never come back. She is gone forever. And what if she does come back? If I ever see her again I’ll spit in her face. That would hurt more than killing her. As for the man, I’ll break his neck.”
Hussain talked on: “I left the alley forever, but Satan pulled me back to it. I know, I’ll set fire to it. That’s the only way to free myself from it.”
“Our alley is wonderful,” Abbas commented wistfully. “I never wanted anything more than to live in it peacefully.”
“You’re just a brainless sheep! You should be sacrificed at the feast of al-Adha. Why are you crying? You’re working, aren’t you? You have money in your pocket. You’re thrifty; soon you’ll have saved up a lot of money. Why are you complaining?”
“You complain more than I do, yet I never heard you say a ‘Praise be to God’ in your life.”
His companion stared hard at him. This brought Abbas back to his senses. Now he spoke mildly: “Well, that’s not your fault. You have your religion, I have mine.”
Hussain laughed so loudly that the whole tavern seemed to shake. The wine now had a grip on his tongue. “I’d do better as a bartender than in my father’s café. I’ll bet there are good profits here, and besides, a bartender gets his liquor free.”
Abbas smiled halfheartedly, and he decided to use caution in what he said to his explosive companion. The alcohol soothed his nerves, but instead of blotting out his misery, now all his thoughts centered on it.
Suddenly Hussain shouted, “I’ve a marvelous idea! I’ll adopt British nationality! In England everyone is equal. A pasha and a garbage collector’s son are the same. In England a café owner’s son could become Prime Mini
The notion attracted Abbas and he shouted, “A great idea! I’ll become British too…”
“Impossible,” said Hussain with a contemptuous curl to his lip. “You’re weak-kneed. You’d better adopt Italian citizenship…Anyway, we’ll both go off on the same ship…Let’s go.”
They paid their bill and left the tavern. Abbas turned to Hussain. “Well now, where to?”
Perhaps the only hour of her past life that Hamida missed was her late-afternoon walk. Now she spent that hour standing before the huge gold-trimmed mirror in her room.
Having spent an hour painstakingly dressing and applying her makeup, she now looked like a woman who from birth had known only the luxuries of life. On her head she wore a white silk turban, under which her oiled and scented hair curled appealingly. She knew from long experience that her bronze skin was more attractive to the Allies, and so she left it its natural color. She applied violet-tinted shadow to her eyelids and carefully waxed and separated her lashes, their silky ends curling upward. Two graceful arches were drawn in place of her eyebrows. Her lips were painted a lush scarlet that accented her dazzling white teeth. Large lotus-shaped pearls dangled on chains from her ears. She wore a gold wristwatch, and a diamond-studded crescent brooch was pinned to her turban. The low neck of her white dress revealed a pink undergarment, and her short skirt drew attention to well-shaped legs. She wore flesh-colored silk stockings for no reason except that they were expensive. Perfume wafted from her palms, neck, and armpits. Things had indeed changed for Hamida!
—
From the very beginning Hamida chose her path of her own free will. Experience had shown her that her future life would be gaiety and pleasure mixed with pain and bitter disappointment. Hamida realized she had arrived at a critical point in her life. Now she stood perplexed and not sure where to turn.