Midaq Alley by Naguib Mahfouz
His new wealth afforded him undreamed-of luxuries. He bought new clothes, frequented restaurants, and delighted in eating meat, which he considered a luxury reserved especially for the rich. He attended cinemas and cabarets and found pleasure in wine and the company of women. Frequently his drinking kindled his hospitality and he would invite his friends to the roof of his house, where he would offer them food, wine, and hashish. On one occasion when he was a little drunk he said to his guests, “In England they call those who enjoy my easy life ‘large.’ ” For some time after this his jealous rivals called him “Hussain Kirsha the Large”; later this became corrupted to “Hussain Kirsha the Garage.”
Abbas began to tidy up carefully and quickly the back and sides of Hussain’s head. He did not disturb the thick mass of wavy hair on top. Meetings with his old friend now usually had a sad effect on him. They were still friends, but life had changed and Abbas missed those evenings when Hussain used to work in his father’s café. Now they met only rarely. Then too, Abbas was aware that envy was a part of the wide gulf that now separated them. However, like all his emotions, this new one was under careful control. He never said an unkind word about his friend and he hoped for the same in return. Sometimes, to ease the gnawing envy, he would say to himself, “Soon the war will end and Hussain will return to the alley as penniless as when he left.”
Hussain Kirsha, in his usual prattling manner, began telling the barber about life in the depot, about the workers, their good wages, the thefts, about his adventures with the British, and the affection and admiration the soldiers showed him.
“Corporal Julian,” he related proudly, “once told me that the only difference between me and the British is that of color. He tells me to be careful with my money, but an arm” (and here he waved wildly) “which can make money during the war can make double that in times of peace. When do you think the war will be over? Don’t let the Italian defeat fool you, they didn’t matter anyway. Hitler will fight for twenty years! Corporal Julian is impressed with my bravery and has a blind faith in me. He trusts me so much that he has let me in on his big trade in tobacco, cigarettes, chocolate, knives, bedcovers, socks, and shoes! Nice, isn’t it?”
“Yes, very,” Abbas muttered in reply.
Hussain peered at himself carefully in the mirror and asked Abbas, “Do you know where I’m going now? To the zoo. Do you know who with? With a girl as sweet as cream and honey.” He kissed the air noisily. “I’m going to take her to see the monkeys.” Roaring with laughter, he continued: “I bet you wonder why the monkeys. That’s just what one would expect from someone like you who has only seen trained monkeys. You must learn, you fool, that the zoo monkeys live in groups in the cages. They’re just like humans in their actions. You can see them making love or fighting, right in public! When I take this girl there, she’ll have as good as opened up the doors for me!”
“Very good,” muttered Abbas without interrupting his work.
“Women are an extensive study and one doesn’t succeed with wavy hair alone.”
“I’m just a poor ignorant fellow,” laughed Abbas in reply, looking at his hair in the mirror.
Hussain threw a sharp glance at his reflection in the mirror and asked, “And Hamida?”
The barber’s heart skipped a beat. He had not expected to hear her name mentioned. Her image rose before him and he flushed red. “Hamida?”
“Yes. Hamida, the daughter of Umm Hamida.”
Abbas took refuge in silence, a look of confusion on his face, while his friend went on: “What a bashful simpleton you are! Your body is asleep, your shop is asleep, your whole life is sleeping. Why should I tire myself out trying to wake you up? You’re a dead man. How can this dreary life of yours ever fulfill your hopes? Never! No matter how much you try, you’ll only make a bare living.”
The barber’s pensiveness showed in his eyes as he said half aloud, “It’s God who chooses for us.”
His young friend said scornfully, “Uncle Kamil, Kirsha’s café, smoking a water pipe, playing cards!”
The barber, now really perplexed, asked, “Why do you make fun of this life?”
“Is it a life at all? Everyone in this alley is half dead, and if you live here long, you won’t need burying. God have mercy on you!”
Abbas hesitated, then asked, although he could anticipate the reply, “What do you want me to do?”
“The many times I’ve told you,” shouted Hussain. “The times I’ve given you my advice. Shake off this miserable life, close up your shop, leave this filthy alley behind. Rest your eyes from looking at Uncle Kamil’s carcass. Work for the British Army. It’s a gold mine that will never be exhausted. Why, it’s exactly like the treasure of Hassan al-Basary! This war isn’t the disaster that fools say it is. It’s a blessing! God sent it to us to rescue us from our poverty and misery. Those air raids are throwing gold down on us!
“I’m still telling you to join the British Army. Italy is finished but Germany isn’t defeated and Japan is behind her. The war will last at least another twenty years. I’m telling you for the last time, there are jobs to be had in Tell el-Kebir. Go and get one!”
The barber was so excited he had difficulty in finishing his job. Abbas had a lazy dislike for change, dreaded anything new, hated traveling, and if he were left to himself he would make no choice other than the alley. If he spent the rest of his life there, he would be quite happy. The truth was, he loved it.
Now, however, the image of Hamida rose before him. His hopes and desires and her image formed one indivisible whole. Despite all this, he feared to reveal his true feelings. He knew he must have time to plan and to think. He said aloud, feigning disinterest, “Oh, traveling is such a bore.”
Hussain stamped his foot and shouted, “You’re the real bore! Going anywhere is much better than Midaq Alley, and better than Uncle Kamil. Go and put your trust in God. You’ve never lived. What have you eaten? What have you drunk? What have you seen? Believe me, you haven’t been born yet….Look at your dreary clothes…”
“It’s a pity I wasn’t born rich.”
“It’s a pity you weren’t born a girl! If you were born a girl, you’d be one of Midaq Alley’s many old maids. Your life revolves only around the house. You never even go to the zoo, or to Mousky Street. Do you know that Hamida walks there every afternoon?”
Mention of her name redoubled his confusion and it hurt him that his friend should talk to him so insultingly. “Your sister Hamida is a girl of fine character. There’s nothing wrong with her strolling occasionally along the Mousky.”
“All right, but she’s an ambitious girl, and you’ll never win her unless you change your life…”
Abbas’s face burned with outrage. He had finished cutting the young man’s hair and he set about combing it silently, his thoughts in a turmoil. Eventually Hussain Kirsha rose and paid him, but before he left the shop he discovered that he had forgotten his handkerchief and he hurried back home for it.
Abbas stood watching him and was struck by how purposeful and happy Hussain seemed. It was just as though he was witnessing these things for the first time. “You’ll never win her unless you change your life.” Surely Hussain was right. His life was mere drudgery. Each day’s work scarcely paid for that day’s expenses. If he wanted to save in these hard times, it was clear he must try something new. How long could he continue to feed on hopes and dreams? Why shouldn’t he try his luck like the others? “An ambitious girl.” That’s what Hussain had said and he was certainly in a position to know. If the girl he loved was ambitious, then he must acquire ambitions himself. Perhaps tomorrow Hussain would think—and he smiled at the thought—that it was he who had awakened him from his stupor. He knew better, however. He realized that were it not for Hamida, nothing could stir him from this life. Abbas now marveled at the strength of love, its power and its strange magic. He thought it right that God had created mankind capable of love and then left the task of developing life to the fertility of love.
<
These thoughts ran their jagged course as he stood before his shop, gazing at Uncle Kamil, who was snoring loudly, a fly whisk in his lap. He heard steps coming from the top of the alley, and he turned to see Hussain Kirsha striding back down again. He looked at him as a gambler beholds a turning roulette wheel. Hussain approached and almost passed; just then Abbas put his hand on his shoulder. “Hussain, I want to talk to you about something important…”
Late afternoon…
The alley returned once more to that hour of murky shadows. Hamida set out, wrapping her cloak around her and listening to the clack of her shoes on the stairs as she made her way to the street. She walked slowly, conscious of both her gait and her appearance, for she was aware that four eyes were examining her closely. The eyes belonged to Salim Alwan, the company owner, and to Abbas, the barber. She was well aware of her attire; a faded cotton dress, an old cloak and shoes with timeworn soles. Nevertheless, she draped her cloak in such a way that it emphasized her ample hips and her full and rounded breasts. The cloak revealed her trim ankles, on which she wore a bangle; it also exposed her black hair and attractive bronze face.
She was determined to take no notice of anything, simply to make her way from Sanadiqiya to Mousky Street. As soon as she was beyond the range of the penetrating eyes, her lips parted in a smile, her beautiful eyes quickly surveyed the activity in the bustling street. For a girl of uncertain origins she never lost her spirit of self-confidence. Perhaps her beauty contributed to her self-assurance, but this was not the only factor.
She was by nature strong, and this strength had never once deserted her. Sometimes her eyes revealed this inner strength; some thought it detracted from her beauty, others that it enhanced it. She was constantly beset by a desire to fight and conquer. This she showed in her pleasure in attracting men and also in her efforts to dominate her mother.
It also revealed itself in quarrels which were always flaring up between her and other women of the alley. As a consequence, they all hated her and said nothing but unkind things about her. Perhaps the most commonly said thing about her was that she hated children and that this unnatural trait made her wild and totally lacking in the virtues of femininity. It was this that made Mrs. Kirsha, the café owner’s wife, who had nursed her, hope to God to see her a mother too, suckling children under the care of a tyrannical husband who beat her unmercifully!
Hamida continued on her way, enjoying her daily promenade and looking in the shop windows, one after the other. The luxurious clothes stirred in her greedy and ambitious mind bewitching dreams of power and influence. Anyone could have told her that her yearning for power centered on her love for money. She was convinced that it was the magic key to the entire world. All she knew about herself was that she dreamed constantly of wealth, of riches which would bring her every luxury her heart had ever desired.
In spite of her fantasies of wealth, she was not unaware of her situation. Indeed, she remembered a girl in Sanadiqiya Street who was even poorer than she. Then fortune sent a rich contractor who transported her from her miserable hovel to a fairy-tale life. What was to prevent good fortune from smiling twice in their quarter? This ambition of hers, however, was limited to her familiar world, which ended at Queen Farida Square. She knew nothing of life beyond it.
In the distance, she saw some of the factory girls approaching her. She hurried toward them; her unpleasant thoughts were now replaced by a smile on her face. In the midst of their greetings and chattering, Hamida gazed searchingly at their faces and clothes, envying them their freedom and obvious prosperity. They were girls from the Darasa district, who, taking advantage of wartime employment opportunities, ignored custom and tradition and now worked in public places just like the Jewish women. They had gone into factory work exhausted, emaciated, and destitute. Soon remarkable changes were noticeable: their once undernourished bodies filled out and seemed to radiate a healthy pride and vitality. They imitated the Jewish girls by paying attention to their appearance and in keeping slim. Some even used unaccustomed language and did not hesitate to walk arm in arm and stroll about the streets of illicit love. They exuded an air of boldness and secret knowledge.
As for Hamida, her age and ignorance had deprived her of their opportunities. She joined their laughter with a false sincerity, all the while envy nibbling at her. She did not hesitate to criticize them, even though in fun. This girl’s frock, for instance, was too short and immodest, while that one’s was simply in bad taste. A third girl was too obvious, the way she stared at men, while she remembered the fourth one from the days when lice crawled about her neck like ants. No doubt these encounters were one of the roots of her constant rebelliousness, but they were also her main source of diversion in the long days filled with boredom and quarrels. So it was that one day she had said to her mother, “The Jewish girls have the only real life here.”
“You must have been conceived by devils!” her mother shouted. “None of my blood is in you.”
“Maybe I’m a pasha’s daughter, even if illegitimately.”
The woman shook her head and moaned, “May God have mercy on your father, a poor vegetable seller in Margush!”
She walked along with her companions, proud in the knowledge of her beauty, impregnable in the armor of her sharp tongue, and pleased that the eyes of passersby settled on her more than on the others.
When they reached the middle of Mousky, she saw Abbas lagging behind them a little, gazing at her with his customary expression. She wondered why he had left his shop at this time of day. Was he following her on purpose? Couldn’t he read the message in her eyes? She had to admit that despite his poverty he was presentable-looking, as were all those in his trade. Yes, his appearance pleased her. She told herself that none of her friends could hope to marry anyone better than Abbas.
Her feelings toward him were strange and complicated. On the one hand, he was the only young man in the alley who would make a suitable husband for her, while she, on the other hand, dreamed of a husband like the rich contractor her neighbor had married. The truth was she neither loved nor wanted him; at the same time she could not dismiss him. Perhaps his passionate glances pleased her.
It was her custom to walk with the girls as far as the end of Darasa and then return alone to the alley. She continued with them, stealing an occasional glance at Abbas. She no longer doubted he was following her intentionally and that he wanted to break his long silence. She was not mistaken. She had scarcely said goodbye to the girls and turned around when he made his way toward her. In a few quick steps he was at her side.
“Good evening, Hamida…” he said awkwardly.
She turned suddenly and pretended to be surprised by his appearance. Then she scowled and lengthened her stride without saying a word. His face reddened, but he caught her up and said in a hurt voice, “Good evening, Hamida…”
She was afraid that if she kept silent and continued to hurry they would reach the square before he could say what he wanted. She drew to a sudden halt and spoke indignantly. “What nerve! One of our neighbors, acting like a fresh stranger!”
“Yes, you’re right, I am a neighbor but I’m not behaving like a stranger. Can’t neighbors talk to one another?”
Hamida frowned and said, “No. A neighbor should protect a neighbor, not insult them.”
“I never thought for one moment of insulting you, God forbid. I only want to t
“How can you say that? It’s wrong for you to stop me in the street and expose me to a scandal.”
Her words horrified him and he seemed stunned. “Scandal? God forbid, Hamida. I have only the most honorable intentions toward you. I swear by the life of Hussain. You’ll soon learn that if you only give me a chance. Listen to me. I want to talk to you about something important. Turn off toward Azhar Street so we can be away from prying eyes.”
Hamida exclaimed in feigned horror, “Be away from people? What a thing to suggest! You’re right, you are a good neighbor!”
Abbas had now become a little braver as a result of her arguing with him and he demanded indignantly, “What’s a neighbor’s crime anyway? Has he got to die without saying what he feels?”
“How pure your words are…”
He sighed peevishly, showing his regret that they were approaching the busy square. “My intentions are completely pure. Don’t rush off, Hamida, let’s turn into Azhar Street. I have something important to tell you. You must listen. I’m sure you know what I want to say. Don’t you feel anything? One’s emotions are the best guide.”
“You’ve gone far enough…No…No…Leave me alone.”
“Hamida…I want to…I want you…”
“So you want to disgrace me before everyone?”
They had now reached Hussain Square and she crossed over to the opposite pavement and hurried off. She then turned down toward Ghouriya, smiling self-consciously. Hamida now knew what he wanted. It was just as he had said. She saw the spark of love in his eyes just as she had suspected it was there when he stared at her window. She knew his financial state was not impressive, but his personality was submissive and humble. This should have pleased her dominating nature; instead she felt no interest. This puzzled her.