The Harafish by Naguib Mahfouz
“Don’t hold back!”
“I spun it out with Atris to be friendly. I could have beaten him right at the start.”
“Don’t hold back, Sulayman,” roared Shams al-Din.
Shams al-Din felt as if he were wrestling with the ancient city wall and as if its stones, sated with the nectar of history, were pounding him like the assaults of time. The struggle grew fiercer; he seemed to be resisting a mountain. It was ages since he had been in a fight. His strength lay dormant in the shadow of his glorious reputation. He tried to forget he was meant to be coaching his own son. Better to die than retreat now. Suddenly he felt determined, single-minded; he flexed his muscles arrogantly and lifted his son’s huge frame clean off the ground and threw him flat on his back at his feet. Then he stood looking down at him, panting, smiling, sore in every part of his body.
Sulayman got to his feet, laughing. “You’re a genuine Nagi, powerful and unbeatable,” he said.
Shams al-Din put his clothes on, full of conflicting emotions. He was neither happy nor sad. The sun went down and perfect calm descended with the dusk.
47.
Shams al-Din settled on the couch. Sulayman did not leave his side. Why was he staying? Did his face show his anguish?
“Why don’t you go now?”
“I’m ashamed of what happened,” mumbled Sulayman.
“Go. Don’t worry.”
He wanted to repeat the order but his tongue refused to obey him. Night fell earlier than usual.
48.
Shams al-Din al-Nagi lost consciousness.
When he opened his eyes he saw red hills under a dust-laden sky. A memory caressed him and vanished. He was breathing in a cave haunted by indifference. The fog rolled away to reveal the faces of Agamiyya and Sulayman. Consciousness assaulted him rudely with a jaundiced laugh. He smelled rose water from his head and neck.
“We were frightened out of our wits,” whispered Agamiyya, white-faced.
“Are you all right, father?” Sulayman asked in a trembling voice.
“Thanks be to God,” he murmured, then added apologetically, “Even Shams al-Din can’t escape illness.”
“But you never complained,” said Agamiyya, bewildered.
“I hate to complain.” Then anxiously he asked, “Has the news got out?”
“Of course not. You were only unconscious for a couple of minutes.”
“Very good. No one must know, not even my men.” He looked at Sulayman and said, “Forget all that’s happened the moment you go out of the door.”
He nodded his head obediently.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” asked Agamiyya.
“Fine.”
“The herb doctor will have something to put you back on form.”
“He’s one of our enemies,” he said crossly.
“What about the barber surgeon? He’s a friend.”
“I said there’s no need for anyone to know. And I’m fine now.”
“But why did it happen at all?” asked Sulayman uneasily.
“Strenuous activity after too much to eat,” said Shams al-Din with a bravado he did not feel.
As he recovered, his confidence returned. He got up and took a few paces around the cramped room. It would be good for him to sit up part of the night in the monastery square as Ashur used to do. But he was overcome by an irresistible desire to sleep.
49.
He made for the square in the late afternoon. The sun’s last rays lingered on the rooftops and the minaret. He passed Atris leading his donkey to drink at the trough. The young man greeted him, the apprentice addressing his revered master. In the alcove housing the fountain he came upon Sheikh Said and stopped to exchange a few words with him. As he stood hidden from view he heard Atris’ voice saying, “Our master Shams al-Din isn’t himself.”
“Perhaps he’s ill,” said another voice sadly.
“Or perhaps it’s old age,” said Atris in the same regretful tone.
A hot blast of anger swept over Shams al-Din. He retraced his steps shouting, “Imbecile!” He took hold of Atris, lifted him high in the air, and threw him into the trough. The crowd dispersed, abandoning their donkeys who had started away in fright at the commotion as the body hit the water.
It was pointless to go to the square now. He rushed blindly to the bar, hurtling through the doorway like a tornado. The drink-blurred voices fell silent; the eyes looked at him in astonished expectation. He looked back defiantly; mystified, they rose to their feet, unsteady but deferential.
Diabolical thoughts whirled around in his head. Uthman al-Darzi hurried up to him. He came to his senses and his wild schemes evaporated. He realized he was being foolish. He had no intention of tilting at windmills, or committing further stupid excesses. A better chance would come and he’d take it. It needed the right moment.
He went out again without having uttered a single word, leaving the bar’s clientele in complete bewilderment.
50.
One day followed another. Destiny appeared on the horizon, moving steadily closer all the time. Nothing delayed its progress. He flexed his muscles, honed his will, and waited. But why persist in using force, when you never really believed in it? The white hair was spreading and there were wrinkles around the mouth and under the eyes. The sight was dimmer, the memory less clear.
The changes in Agamiyya happened faster, more abruptly. Her appetite diminished, her digestion was poor. She had mysterious pains in her back and legs. She grew thinner, shrunken, and took to her bed. What had happened to this powerful woman? She tried one cure after another, but some essential ingredient was missing.
He sat in the café more and more frequently, and left the cart to Sulayman. He met with his men, heard the latest news, evaluating his power daily, testing his authority and influence.
“There’s a new chief in Atuf,” announced one of his followers one morning.
“Perhaps fate has blinded him to his true worth. Let’s teach him a lesson,” he said disdainfully.
In the evenings he sat alone in the square for an hour or two listening to the anthems, then hurried home to sit with Agamiyya. It was clear she was going from bad to worse. Was he destined to spend his last years alone? She had tried every remedy and continued to deteriorate.
51.
He was going home one noontime when he accidentally kicked a child’s spinning top.
“You stupid old man! Are you blind?” shouted the child in a fury.
He whipped around and saw the boy, as straight as a lance, staring at him defiantly. He wanted to squash him underfoot but swallowed his anger and walked away. This generation knew nothing about him. They were alive thanks to him, and yet they were unaware of his existence. Without thinking they expressed what the adults kept to themselves. Wouldn’t it be better to be dead?
52.
At dawn the next day he was woken by a sudden movement from Agamiyya. He lit the lamp and found her sitting up in bed, glowing with unexpected vitality. He felt renewed hope. “You’re better, Agamiyya,” he said to her.
But she didn’t answer. She stared unseeing at the wall and whispered, “Father.”
He was filled with dejection. “Agamiyya,” he called in low, pleading tones.
He saw her drifting off into the unknown and shouted desperately, “Don’t leave me alone.”
He held her to his chest. His lifelong companion was dying. His whole body was racked by a fit of weeping but not a single tear fell.
53.
His sons’ wives took it in turn to look after him. The house was never empty but he would whisper to himself, “How terrible this loneliness is.”
Agamiyya’s death did not cause him as much distress as he had expected. He felt she was just a few steps away from him. At his age there was no point in being sad. He feared not death, but weakness. He was old; the day would come when all that was left of his reign as chief was the name and the memory of what once had been.
Bakri Samaha, who was over f
“We’re all ready to help,” added others.
“What are you getting at?” he demanded angrily.
No one spoke, and he went on, “If I wasn’t sure of my strength, I would have retired already.”
“Let Sulayman take over,” began Samaha.
But Sulayman interrupted: “My father’s still the stronger.”
He glanced gratefully at his son, then turned back to the others. “What do you know of the curse of old age?” he demanded.
“It can turn into a boon if you take it easy,” said Samaha.
“With others coveting your position. It’s horrible, the slide downhill.”
Again nobody spoke until at last he said irritably, “Thank you. You can go now.”
54.
Salahe kar koja va mane kharab koja
Bebin tatavote rah az kujast ta bekuja.
He sat immersed in the chanting under the light of the full moon, by whose alchemy the paving stones in the square were changed to silver.
Shortly before midnight he started for home; as he passed Sheikh Said’s shop the sheikh came out to speak to him: “Have you heard the news, master?”
He looked blank and the sheikh said, “Your men have ambushed the Atuf clan. Their new chief’s victory parade!”
He started angrily. “Impossible!” he shouted.
“It’s true. And they’ll beat them, God willing.”
“Where?”
“At Mitwalli Gate. To put the new chief in his place.”
“Behind my back?” he fumed.
He struck the ground with his knotted stick and strode off into the darkness. Said al-Faqi watched him until he had disappeared from view. “Incontinent old fool,” he muttered scornfully as he turned to go back into his shop.
55.
The battle had begun a few minutes before he arrived. Some of his men saw him and cried, “Shams al-Din al-Nagi!”
The procession had erupted into a series of running fights and the clash of sticks filled the air. Sulayman was working wonders. The Atuf chief attacked with accuracy, striking confusion into Shams al-Din’s men.
Shams al-Din hurled himself into the thick of the battle. He leapt nimbly in front of his son and came face-to-face with the Atuf chief. Dodging a heavy blow, he began to wield his stout stick with speed and dexterity. A strange power possessed him and he fought better than ever. He appeared exuberant, inspired, fearless. His men’s enthusiasm increased in leaps and bounds and the clatter of weapons rose to a frenzy. Drunk on the heady wine of battle he performed miracles. Blows rained down on him but he was immune, unstoppable. His rival was put out of action and from then on the Atuf men lost their spirit and fell back defeated.
In less than an hour the victory parade had turned into a funeral. The colored lights were broken, flutes and tambourines lay smashed on the ground, flowers were trampled underfoot, and the men had all fled.
Shams al-Din stood panting, his forehead covered in blood. His men encircled him; Sulayman came forward and kissed his hand, but he motioned him away. “You owe me an explanation,” he said.
“It was loyalty, not treason,” said Sulayman apologetically.
The men cheered and shouted, “God bless Shams al-Din.”
56.
They went home with Shams al-Din at their head, braving the darkness with flickering candles, and chanting in voices to waken the dead, “God bless him! God bless him!”
Then someone sang in a tuneful voice:
O sweet carnation in a garden full of mint.
But Shams al-Din did not enjoy his resounding victory for long. He soon became detached from the group and found himself in exalted, dreary isolation. He had heard it said that everything was worthless, even victory. And that if there were a lot of people cheering you, there were always many more listening to them cheering, Ashur al-Nagi came toward him, carrying his beautiful mother in her cumin-colored shroud. He was overjoyed to see Ashur after his long absence and told him he’d been certain he would come back someday; but hadn’t his mother been buried already?
In happy moments a cloud would descend and bear him up into the vault of heaven. Then he would take no notice of the waves of depression which tried to drag him toward the unknown. It mattered little whether his legs carried him along or failed him. But he was alone. Alone, and suffering. What was the weakness slowly stealing over him? The lights were fading. The closer he got to the alley, the farther away it went. He was going toward infinity. His greatest ambition now was to reach his bed. The cries rang out: “God bless him! God bless him!”
Alone, Shams al-Din wrestled with the unknown. It blocked his path, made the ground rise up in front of him, snatched away his great victory with a mocking grin; it clenched its fist and struck him in the chest with a force he’d never experienced before.
Shams al-Din moaned and fell and his men caught him.
The third tale in the epic of the harafish
1.
The whole neighborhood was upset by Shams al-Din’s death and everybody contributed to building a tomb which would be a worthy resting place for him. Not a soul was absent from his funeral cortege. His heroic fortitude became the stuff of legend, ranking with the miracles of the saints, and he was given the title of “Vanquisher of Old Age and Illness.” His just reign, free from corruption, was remembered forever alongside that of his father, the great Ashur. He was forgiven for his romantic escapades but no one forgot that he had always worked hard for a living and died in poverty.
Thanks to him and his father the alley existed as an ideal in people’s minds for years to come.
2.
Sulayman Shams al-Din al-Nagi succeeded his father as clan chief. He was a giant like his grandfather, without the grace and beauty of his father, but he had all the charms of a typical man of his people. No one came forward to contest his election and Atris joined his clan with enthusiasm and devotion. The nature and quality of life was unchanged. For a few days hope flickered in the hearts of the notables, then died away. Sulayman was no more than twenty but he followed in his father’s footsteps without hesitation. Protector of the harafish, he muzzled the rich, fought criminals and thugs, and was content to carry on his father’s trade.
As was to be expected the chiefs of the neighboring clans challenged him and he fought battle after battle against them, always winning; true, his victories did not have the same aura as those of his father and grandfather, but they were sufficient to secure peace and enhance the alley’s prestige. The fighting left him with permanent scars on his forehead and neck, but they were fine evidence of his courage.
It would be fair to say that he was sometimes tempted to a life of ease and opulence and that he read similar desires in the eyes of his brothers and helpers, but he frowned on such weakness, discouraged it, and made his tender heart receptive to the fascination of true greatness.
3.
Fathiyya—his friend Atris’ sister—had been at Quran school with him. His father’s funeral was the first time he had seen her for years. Despite his grief he took a fancy to her. She was about his age and full of life, with a flat nose, dark brown skin, and beautiful eyes. He felt marriage would protect him from behaviors unworthy of a chief. So he asked Atris for her hand and they were married at once. The people of the alley rejoiced at the news: they counted it a victory for the harafish and a triumph of virtue.
4.
Ten peaceful years went by. Sulayman did his duty with the feeling that being chief was a heavy burden and only on rare occasions was there any joy in it. Fathiyya bore one daughter after another.
In the last of his peaceful years Sulayman saw Saniyya al-Samari.
As he sat in the café resting after work she would pass in the carriage belonging to her father, a rich flour merchant. She looked radiant in her fine dress, her white veil emphasizing the calm, dark magic of her eyes, and her fleeting presence filled the air with warmth and inspiration.
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5.
After the Friday prayer Sheikh Said appeared at his side. They walked along together and as they reached the café the sheikh said, “I had a strange dream, master.”
Sulayman looked at him inquiringly and he said, “I dreamed some good people wished to come and see you.”
Sulayman’s heart jumped nervously and he felt as if he had suddenly been stripped naked. To hide his confusion he murmured sarcastically, “What a diabolical dream!”
Earnestly the sheikh continued, “But they thought the first move should come from you.”
“What did they want from a humble carter?” Sulayman asked craftily.
“They wanted him to lead them to the undisputed lord of the alley!” answered the sheikh.
6.
Temptation rose like a mountain in his path. He summoned Atris to the café. “I have a secret to tell you,” he said.
Atris waited attentively and Sulayman said, “You’re my friend. What would you think if I married again?”
“You want to get rid of Fathiyya?” asked Atris simply.