Midaq Alley by Naguib Mahfouz


  However, it was the coming Sunday that now occupied his thoughts. A night and a morning had passed since the unexpected meeting in the flower shop. Meanwhile he had carefully gone over the incident time and time again in his mind. He now knew that he still loved the girl, even though she was clearly lost to him forever. Most of all he longed to have revenge on his rival.

  Uncle Kamil asked him anxiously, “Tell me, what have you decided to do?”

  “I’ll stay here at least until next Sunday,” replied Abbas, getting up. “Then everything will be in God’s hands.”

  “It won’t be too hard to forget if you really make the effort,” Uncle Kamil commented sympathetically.

  “You’re right,” said Abbas, about to leave. “Goodbye, then!”

  He walked off, intending to go to Vita’s bar, where he thought Hussain had gone after saying farewell to Radwan Hussainy. Abbas was still in a deeply troubled state. He looked forward to Sunday, but what would he do when it came? Would he plunge a knife in his rival’s heart? Would he really be able to do it? Could his hand manage a murderous thrust? He shook his head doubtfully. All degrees of crime and violence sickened his peaceful nature.

  What would he do when Sunday came? He yearned to see Hussain Kirsha to tell him Hamida’s story and ask his advice. He desperately needed help. Now, convinced of his weakness, he recalled Radwan Hussainy’s advice: “Go back to Tell el-Kebir today.” Yes, why should he not give up the past and all its sadness and summon up his courage and stoicism and go off to work and to forget?

  In a turmoil of indecision he entered Vita’s bar. There was Hussain Kirsha soberly sipping red wine. Abbas greeted him and said emotionally, “You’ve drunk enough. I need you for something. Come on with me.”

  Hussain raised his eyebrows in annoyance as Abbas lifted him by the arm, saying, “Hurry, I need you badly.”


  Hussain groaned, paid his bill, and left the tavern with his friend. Abbas was determined to get his advice before the effect of drink overcame him.

  When they were in Mousky Street, he said to Hussain as though in great relief, “I’ve found Hamida, Hussain…”

  “Where?” asked Hussain, his small eyes glinting with curiosity.

  “You remember that woman in the carriage I chased yesterday? It was Hamida!”

  Hussain shouted in surprise, “Are you drunk? What did you say?”

  Very serious and full of emotion, Abbas repeated, “Believe me. That was Hamida and I talked with her.”

  Still stunned, Hussain asked, “You expect me to refuse to believe my own eyes?”

  Abbas told him of his conversation with the girl and finished by saying, “That’s what I wanted to tell you. There’s no hope for Hamida now, she’s lost forever, but I am not going to let that filthy gangster escape without punishment.”

  Hussain gazed at him for a long time, trying to understand him. By nature he was foolhardy and reckless and it took him time to get over his astonishment. Then he commented scornfully, “Hamida is the real culprit. Didn’t she run off with him? Didn’t she yield to him? How can you criticize him? A girl attracted him and he seduced her; he found her easy and he got what he wanted. He wanted to exploit her talents, so he let her loose in the taverns. Why, he’s a clever fellow. I only wish I could do the same to get out of my financial problems. Hamida’s the real criminal, my friend.”

  Abbas understood his friend and realized without a doubt that Hussain had no scruples about what his rival had done. Therefore he refrained from criticizing the man’s morals and tried to arouse Hussain’s sense of injury another way. He asked, “But don’t you think this fellow has insulted our honor and therefore must be punished?”

  The use of the word “honor” did not escape Hussain’s notice, and he realized that Abbas referred to the near-brotherly ties that bound them so closely. He suddenly recalled how his sister had been thrown into prison because of a similar scandal and the thought enraged him. He roared, “That doesn’t concern me. Hamida can go to the devil!”

  He was not completely truthful in what he said. If he had had the culprit before him at that moment, he would have sprung on him like a tiger and dug his claws deep. Abbas, however, believed him. In a slightly critical tone, he said to Hussain, “Doesn’t it infuriate you that a man should do this to a girl from our alley? I agree with you that Hamida is to blame, so one can’t really criticize the man. But still, isn’t it an insult to us that we should avenge?”

  “What a fool you are,” shouted Hussain indignantly. “You’re not mad because of your honor, as you think. It’s pure jealousy. If Hamida agreed to come back to you, you’d go off with her quite happily. How did you greet her, you poor sap? You argued and pleaded with her? Bravo! Well done! What a brave fellow you are indeed…Why didn’t you murder her? If I were in your position, I wouldn’t have hesitated a minute. I’d have throttled her on the spot and then butchered her lover and disappeared…That’s what you should have done, you fool!”

  His near-black face took on a satanic look as he continued to bellow, “I’m not saying this to escape doing my duty. This fellow should pay for his aggression. And he will! We’ll keep the appointment you made and we’ll beat him up. Then we’ll wait for him in all his haunts and beat him up again, even if he has a gang with him. And we won’t stop doing this until he pays us off, at a good price. That way we’ll have revenge and profit from him at the same time!”

  Abbas was delighted at this unexpected conclusion and said enthusiastically, “What a great idea! You’re a very clever fellow!”

  Hussain was pleased at this praise. He wondered how he could carry out his plan, spurred on by the anger inspired by his sense of honor, his natural aggressiveness, and his greed for money. He muttered viciously, “Sunday isn’t far off.”

  When they reached Queen Farida Square, they stopped and Hussain suggested, “Let’s go back to Vita’s bar.”

  Abbas hesitated and said, “Wouldn’t it be better to go to the tavern where we’ll meet him on Sunday, so that you’ll know where it is?”

  Hussain lingered a bit and then walked off with his friend, stepping out more quickly now. The sun was about to set; only a few light shadows were now being thrown by its light. The whole sky was quiet and inky black, as it always was when the first shadows fell. The streetlamps were lit, and traffic flowed on, indifferent to the change from day to night. The whole surface of the earth seemed to echo and resound with ceaseless noise. Streetcars rumbled by, auto horns blew, vendors shouted their wares, and street musicians blew their pipes, while people bustled all around. Coming in from the alley to this street was like a translation from sleep to noisy wakefulness.

  Abbas felt elated, and his bewilderment dispersed. Now, with the help of his brave and strong friend, he could see his way clearly before him. As for Hamida, he was content to let the unknown circumstances decide things. He felt unable to settle anything himself, or perhaps he was simply afraid to make a final decision about her. He wanted to talk to his friend about this but took one look at Hussain’s black face and the words choked in his throat. They continued on their way until they reached the scene of Abbas’ last dramatic encounter with Hamida. The barber nudged his friend and said, “This is the flower shop where we talked.”

  Hussain looked silently at the shop and asked with interest, “And where is the tavern?”

  Abbas nodded to a nearby door and muttered, “That must be it.”

  They walked slowly toward it, Hussain’s small sharp eyes looking carefully all around. As they walked by, Abbas looked inside the tavern and an extraordinary sight met his eyes. He let out a gasp and the muscles of his face set hard. From then on things happened so quickly that Hussain was left in a daze. He saw Hamida sitting amidst a crowd of soldiers. One stood behind her pouring wine into a glass in her hand, leaning toward her slightly as she turned her head toward him. Her legs were stretched on the lap of another soldier sitting opposite her, and there were others in uniform crowding around her, drinking bo
isterously. Abbas stood stunned. His anger foamed within him and blinded his vision, and he quite forgot that he had any enemy other than her. He charged madly into the tavern, roaring out in a thunderous voice, “Hamida…”

  The girl was struck with terror and her face went white with fear. She bellowed angrily in her coarse, harsh voice, “Out! Get out of my sight!”

  Her anger and shouting acted like gasoline on flames, and Abbas’ rage turned to sheer fury. His normal hesitancy and reserve disappeared as he felt all the sorrow, disappointment, and despair he had suffered in the past three days boil up within him to burst forth in a mad frenzy. He noticed some empty beer glasses on the bar, took one, and, not really aware what he was doing, hurled it at her with all the force of the anger and despair within him. He acted so quickly that no one, neither the soldiers nor any of the tavern employees, could stop him, and the glass struck her in the face. Blood poured in a stream from her nose, mouth, and chin, mixing with the creams and powders on her face and running down onto her neck and dress. Her screams mingled with the enraged shouts of the drunks in the tavern, and angry men fell on Abbas from all sides like wild animals. Blows, kicks, and glasses flew in all directions.

  Hussain Kirsha stood at the door watching his friend pelted with blows from fists and feet, just like a ball and quite defenseless. Each time he was struck, he yelled, “Hussain…Hussain.” His friend, however, who had never before in his life drawn back from a fight, remained glued to the ground, not knowing how he could cut his way to Abbas through all the angry soldiers. Rage swept over him, and he began searching left and right to find some sharp object, some stick or knife. He failed and stood there impotently with the passersby now gathered at the door staring at the battle taking place, their fists clenched and their eyes filled with horror.

  The morning light filled the alley and rays from the sun fell on the upper walls of Alwan’s office and the barbershop. Sanker, the young café waiter, appeared and filled a bucket with water, which he sprinkled on the ground. The alley was turning another of the pages of its monotonous life, its inhabitants greeting the morning with their usual cries. Uncle Kamil was extraordinarily active for this early hour, standing in front of a dish of sweetmeat, serving it out to boys from the elementary school and filling his pocket with the small coins they gave him.

  Opposite him the old barber was stropping his razors, and Jaada, the baker, went by bringing dough from houses nearby. Salim Alwan’s employees were arriving now, opening doors and storerooms and disturbing the peace and quiet with their noise, which would continue all day long. Kirsha was squatting behind his till dreaming, splitting something between his front teeth, chewing it, and then washing it down with coffee. Near him sat Sheikh Darwish, silent and lost to the world. Early though it was, Mrs. Saniya Afify appeared at her window, to say goodbye to her young husband as he made his way down the alley, off to work in the police department.

  This was the normal pattern of life in the alley, disturbed only occasionally when one of its girls disappeared or one of its menfolk was swallowed by the prison. But soon such bubbles subsided into its lakelike surface, calm or stagnant, and by evening whatever might have happened in the morning was almost forgotten.

  The early morning, then, found the alley enjoying its quiet and peaceful life as usual, but at midmorning Hussain Kirsha arrived, his face filled with gloom and his eyes red with loss of sleep. He came slowly and heavily up the alley, went over to his father, and threw himself into a chair facing him. Without a greeting he said hoarsely, “Father, Abbas has been killed…”

  Kirsha, who was just about to reprimand him for spending the whole night away from home, made no reply. He sat staring in astonishment at his son, shocked and motionless. Then, suddenly, in an annoyed tone, he demanded, “What did you say?”

  Hussain, sitting staring fixedly ahead, replied huskily, “Abbas has been killed! The British murdered him…”

  He moistened his lips and repeated all Abbas had told him the previous day on their walk. His voice full of emotion, he said, “He took me to show me a tavern that bitch had told him about. As we passed it, he saw her in the midst of a crowd of soldiers. He went wild, lost his temper, charged inside, and hurled a glass into her face before I knew what he was doing. The soldiers got mad and dozens of them beat him till he fell down senseless.”

  He clenched his fists tight and, gnashing his teeth in angry hate, went on: “It was hell…I couldn’t help him. There were just too many damned soldiers…If only I could have gotten my hands on one of those damned soldiers.”

  “ ‘All power and strength are in God’s hands,’ ” quoted Kirsha, slapping his hands together. “What did you do with him?”

  “The police arrived too late and put a cordon around the tavern. But what good could that do? They carried his body off to Kasr el-Aini Hospital and took the whore off for first-aid treatment.”

  “Was she killed?” asked Kirsha.

  “I don’t think so,” answered Hussain. “Too bad; he lost his life in vain.”

  “And the British?”

  Hussain replied sadly, “We left them surrounded by the police, and who can expect any justice from them?”

  Kirsha once again brought his hands together in a slap and quoted, “ ‘We are all God’s creatures and to Him must we return.’ Do Abbas’ relatives know the news? Go out and tell his Uncle Hassan in Khurunfush so that God will perform His will.”

  Hussain got up and left the café. The news soon spread as Kirsha told his son’s tale repeatedly to people who came to ask. Their tongues in turn circulated the story, along with many additions and variations.

  Uncle Kamil staggered into the café in a dazed state and sat slumped in a chair staring straight ahead and mumbling. Suddenly he threw himself on the sofa and began weeping like a child. He could not believe it possible that the young man—who had teased him about buying a shroud—was no longer alive. When the news reached Hamida’s mother she fled the house and streaked down the alley wailing out the news to everyone. Some said she wept for the killer and not the victim.

  The person most deeply affected was Salim Alwan. His sorrow was not one of personal loss, but more the fact that death had forced its way into the alley. Now all his old worries and fears were redoubled. Dark thoughts and sick fantasies of the throes of death itself and of the grave all came back to him. Terror gripped him and he could no longer bear to sit still. He paced up and down in his office and walked into the alley to gaze mournfully at the shop which had been Abbas’ for so many years. He had, due to the hot weather, been disregarding the doctor’s orders to drink only warm water, but now he instructed that it always be served warm as before. He spent a full hour sitting in his darkened office trembling with fear and panic, his nerves shattered by Uncle Kamil’s weeping…

  —

  This crisis too, like all the others, finally subsided and the alley returned to its usual state of indifference and forgetfulness. It continued, as was its custom, to weep in the morning when there was material for tears and resound with laughter in the evening. And in the time between, doors and windows would creak as they were opened and then creak again as they were closed.

  In this particular period no matter of note occurred, except that Mrs. Saniya Afify decided to clear out the flat which Dr. Booshy had occupied before he went to jail and Uncle Kamil volunteered to carry Dr. Booshy’s personal belongings and dental tools into his flat. In explanation it was said that Uncle Kamil preferred to share his dwelling with Dr. Booshy rather than continue to endure unaccustomed loneliness. No one blamed him and indeed they may well have considered the act a kindness on his part, for a term in prison was not the sort of thing to bring disgrace on a man in the alley.

  During these days too, people talked about Umm Hamida’s renewal of contact with her foster daughter, who was well on the way to convalescence and recovery. They gossiped about how the mother seemed to be hoping to reap some of the profits of this ample treasure.

&nbs
p; Then the interest of the alley was suddenly really aroused when a butcher and his family came to occupy Dr. Booshy’s flat. The family consisted of the butcher, his wife, seven sons, and an extremely beautiful daughter. Hussain Kirsha said she was as lovely as a new moon.

  When, however, the time for Radwan Hussainy’s return from the Hejaz came close, no one could think of anything but this. They hung up lanterns and flags and put a carpet of sand down over the street, all promising themselves a night of such joy and happiness that they would never forget it.

  One day Sheikh Darwish saw Uncle Kamil joking with the old barber and, gazing up toward the roof of the café, he recited loudly, “ ‘Man is named only to be forgotten and there’s never a heart that doesn’t change.’ ”

  Uncle Kamil’s face clouded over and went pale and his eyes brimmed with tears. Sheikh Darwish shrugged his shoulders indifferently and went on, his eyes still fixed on the roof: “ ‘Let him who dies of love die sad; there’s no good in any love without death.’ ”

  Then he shuddered, sighed deeply, and continued: “O Lady of Ladies, O fulfiller of all needs…mercy…mercy, O People of the House! I will be patient so long as I live, for do not all things have their end? Oh yes, everything comes to its nihaya.

  “And the word for this in English is ‘end’ and it is spelled e-n-d…”

  Naguib Mahfouz

  Midaq Alley

  Naguib Mahfouz was one of the most prominent writers of Arabic fiction in the twentieth century. Born in Cairo in 1911, he began writing when he was seventeen. Over his long career, he wrote nearly forty novellength works and hundreds of short stories, ranging from re-imaginings of ancient myths to subtle commentaries on contemporary Egyptian politics and culture. His most famous work is The Cairo Trilogy (consisting of Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, and Sugar Street), which focuses on a Cairo family through three generations, from 1917 until 1952. In 1988, Mahfouz became the first writer in Arabic to be awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. He died in August 2006.

 
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