The Harafish by Naguib Mahfouz
“Mahalabiyya,” answered Samaha with a defiant smile.
Diya burst out laughing, her innocent eyes devoid of either pleasure or sorrow at the news, but Radwan repeated in amazement, “Mahalabiyya!”
“The daughter of Sabah, the exorcist,” agreed Samaha calmly.
Khidr frowned and flushed with anger. Diya shook an imaginary tambourine, laughing heartily.
“Why are you tormenting us like this?” demanded Khidr.
“Uncle, I love you, and I love Mahalabiyya too,” answered Samaha gently.
6.
He had noticed her for the first time at the Feast of the Dead sitting beside her mother on a donkey cart. Later when he was at Shams al-Din’s graveside he saw her jump lightly to the ground. Her skin was dark, almost black. She was slim, with sharp features, well-proportioned limbs, a smiling face, and she exuded life and femininity. He felt a surge of burning desire to be joined with her. Their eyes met in mutual curiosity, responsive like fertile earth. The scorching air, the heavy sighs of grief, the fragrance of cut palm leaves, basil, and sweet pastries for the festival fused with their secret desires. He inclined toward her like a sunflower. The death all around spurred him on.
He was not surprised by what had happened. He had always felt intensely attracted to black women, and his first sexual encounters had taken place in their arms, in the gloom of the archway or in the derelict buildings behind the bar.
7.
He acted alone. He chose the most disreputable man he could think of, Sadiq Abu Taqiya, to ask about Mahalabiyya and her mother.
“I never leave the bar,” he said, “but I get unsolicited gossip all the time.” He thought a little. “The girl’s got quite a few admirers, but I’ve never heard a bad word said against her.”
Samaha felt glad, reckoning that such an obvious scoundrel would probably give the most accurate kind of evidence. However, he was not entirely convinced and went to consult the imam of the local mosque, Sheikh Ismail al-Qalyubi. “Her mother’s trade is damned in the eyes of God,” he declared.
“I’m asking about the daughter.”
“Why choose your wife from a house haunted by demons?” asked the imam testily.
But Muhammad Tawakkul, the local sheikh, was unequivocal. “The girl’s reputation is spotless.”
She seems more respectable than my grandmother Saniyya, thought Samaha.
8.
Samaha went to visit Sabah in her home overlooking the animal trough. At first she imagined he was a prospective client and her mind went to Diya al-Shubakshi.
“Welcome to the son of our glorious heroes,” she said effusively.
He looked at her mildly, lulled by the fumes of Sudanese incense which filled his nostrils. His eyes roamed over the tambourines of various sizes, the whips and swords, and the robes encrusted with colored pearls, all of which were jumbled together on the sofa or piled up on shelves around the room, then returned to rest on her body which bulged in front of him like a sack of coal.
“At your service, my lord,” she said.
“It’s not what you think,” he muttered.
“What can I do for you, then?”
Fixing his eyes on the patterned rug at his feet, he said, “I want to marry your daughter, Mahalabiyya.”
She was astonished at first. Her bearing suddenly changed. Her face broke out into a broad smile, revealing even white teeth.
“Fancy that!” she muttered.
He raised his head, smiling, and said, “I hope you’ll say yes.”
“None of your family’s with you,” she said significantly.
“I decided to start things off by myself,” he said vaguely.
“Really? How I like free men!”
He smiled encouragingly.
“Fine!” she murmured, and they joined hands and recited the prayer to confirm the agreement.
9.
Khidr did not want to let go of Unsiyya, the herbalist’s daughter, so he married her to Radwan and ensured his line would be established on a reliable basis.
Samaha asked his uncle, “Will you come to my wedding?”
“You’re one of us and the nail clings to the flesh,” answered Khidr without hesitation.
Reassured, Samaha asked Radwan the same question. “I’ll always be beside you,” answered his brother enthusiastically.
But nothing could efface their hidden sorrow.
10.
“Welcome to Nagi, lord of us all!” cried al-Fulali, surrounded by his henchmen in Tirbasa’s smoking den. This was how he always greeted him. But Samaha wasn’t stupid. He knew instinctively never to drop his guard. He felt there was always someone registering his movements, studying his expressions. He had the impression of being constantly under surveillance. But he played the role to perfection. He hurried up to the chief, brushed his shoulder with his lips deferentially, and took his accustomed place on the mat, among the lowlier members of the clan.
“I came to invite the chief and the brothers to my wedding party,” he announced cheerfully.
Al-Fulali guffawed in delight. He turned to Hamouda, his private pimp and right-hand man. “Let’s hear it, you son of a gun!”
Hamouda trilled for joy, more exuberantly than any loose woman, and al-Fulali went on, “Congratulations. When’s the big day?”
“Next Thursday, God willing.”
“And who’s the lucky girl?”
“Sabah’s daughter.”
The men were speechless. They turned to their chief with startled expressions. In the feeble lamplight they looked like grotesque specters. Al-Fulali broke the silence: “Sabah only has one daughter as far as I know!”
“That’s the one I mean, master.”
All that could be heard was a stomach rumbling quietly from time to time, a stray cough. Vague secrets swirled in the smoky haze.
“By the prophet Husayn, the greatest of all the martyrs!” cried al-Fulali expansively. Then he confronted his men: “The world can play some funny tricks, can’t it, lads?”
They moistened their lips nervously, aware of the warning implicit in his words, and uttered lame expressions of surprise.
“It’s a funny old world!”
“Amazing!”
Al-Fulali gave Hamouda a friendly slap and said, “You’d better tell our hero the secret!”
Hamouda turned to Samaha. “Can you believe it? No more than an hour ago the chief decided to send you as his emissary to ask Sabah for her daughter’s hand.”
Samaha was dumbfounded. The ground rocked beneath him. A gaping hole opened at his feet. He was unable to speak.
“Fate,” declared al-Fulali. “I only made up my mind yesterday. And I decided to choose you as my messenger an hour ago.”
The moment of truth was here. Al-Fulali had accepted him into the clan without any kind of trial, but he had been waiting for the right occasion to test his loyalty. Now it had arrived; it loomed starkly before him. He was at the crossroads of life and death. But whatever choice he made he was finished.
Al-Fulali looked at his men. “What shall we do?” he asked.
Random voices answered him: “Who would challenge the sun’s place in the sky?”
“Is the eyebrow beneath the eye?”
“What an honor to be the chief’s messenger!”
“When are you going to speak, Samaha?” demanded Hamouda.
He had to say something. The atmosphere crackled with tension. He was expected to sink out of sight. Accept annihilation. Swallow the deadly poison.
“To hear is to obey, chief,” he said.
11.
He rejoined his family shortly before midnight.
“Diya was telling us about a dream she had,” said his uncle.
Samaha did not listen. Unsiyya, Radwan’s wife, continued, “She saw you astride a mule. You were laying into it with a whip, but it refused to budge.”
“A woman’s dreams generally mean something, you know,” teased Radwan.
“He’s get
Samaha sighed audibly. Radwan examined him with concern. “You’re a different person, Samaha,” he murmured.
“That’s what I thought. I was trying not to notice,” said Khidr.
Samaha told them the whole story. A heavy weight descended on his audience. Terror was visible even on Diya’s pretty, bland face.
“I always warned you,” said Khidr.
“The presence of people like you in a gang is bound to arouse fears,” said Radwan. “Even if al-Fulali himself isn’t affected, it’ll be enough to undermine the pretenders to the throne. It must have been them who kept up the pressure and caused the rift between you and the chief.”
Khidr nodded in agreement. “That’s why he’s pushing you into a corner—so you won’t be able to escape without losing either your honor or your life.”
“You’ll have to be on your guard more than ever now. That man can see into every nook and cranny!” said Radwan.
“The mule refuses to budge,” said Diya sadly.
“What have you decided to do?” asked Unsiyya.
But Samaha, looking wretched, remained silent.
“Don’t consider any form of resistance,” Khidr warned.
12.
Samaha went to visit Sabah early next morning. On his way he felt the eyes burning into him like red-hot coals. Sabah kissed him on the forehead and said, “Only two more days until happy Thursday!”
He smiled weakly. “Things have changed.”
She stared hard at him, full of apprehension.
“I’m only al-Fulali’s messenger,” he said tersely. “He wants to marry your daughter, Mahalabiyya.”
The words slid over her mind without leaving any impression. He repeated them and asked her to call Mahalabiyya. He recounted the story to the two of them and they listened despondently. Then silence descended like a lead weight.
Samaha was the first to break it. “I’m the one to suffer most from his decision,” he said.
Sabah swore vehemently, convinced of his sincerity.
“We have to work things out,” went on Samaha.
“He’s terrorizing us!” said Sabah.
“What do you want to do?” Mahalabiyya asked him.
In spite of the discouraging situation he felt excited by her presence. “I want to know how both of you feel,” he said.
Sabah answered at once, “No one in their right minds would stand up to al-Fulali, son.”
“You think we should give in!”
“It’s the only reasonable way to look at things.”
He shifted his gaze to Mahalabiyya.
“What do you think?” she asked him.
“I can’t give you up,” he declared simply.
“It’ll be the end of us,” cried Sabah in alarm.
“I’m staying with you,” said Mahalabiyya, her eyes resting on his face.
His heart pounded and a violent surge of pleasure went through him.
“It’s pure madness,” said Sabah.
“Let’s run away,” said Mahalabiyya.
He nodded his head in agreement.
“What about me?” demanded Sabah.
“You’ll have nothing to do with it. You’ll be quite safe.”
“Do you think people who want revenge act according to reason?”
“Come with us!”
“My livelihood’s here.”
“You can earn your living anywhere.”
“We’ll take cash with us,” said Mahalabiyya.
“You’d be mad to consider it seriously,” wailed Sabah.
But Samaha was already working out a more detailed plan of action.
13.
He went straight back to al-Fulali, kissed his shoulder, and said cheerfully, “Congratulations, master.”
Al-Fulali stared at him briefly, then grunted, “Well done, lad.”
14.
He crouched in the gloom of the pathway between the old city wall and the monastery boundary. Here, generations before, Ashur had been found, nameless and shapeless, wrapped in a shawl, oblivious to the anthems washing over him. A merciful hand had reached out to pluck him from nothingness. The same anthems scaled the waves of night now:
Darin zamane ratiqi keh khali as khelalast
Sarahiye meye nab o satineye ghazalast.
Mahalabiyya would come wrapped in shadows. Her heart would shine through the darkness with the longing for life and love which kept it beating. They would meet and touch on the pathway, the pathway of eternity, paved with burning hopes.
He was anxious all the same. Several times he had folded back his gallabiyya to urinate. He listened intently, dreaming of escaping to safety, fighting off fears and misgivings. He vowed to sacrifice a sheep if he succeeded, remembering the example of his uncle Khidr who had fled in despair and returned as a man of wealth and status. Perhaps one day he would return to restore the glorious age of al-Nagi.
Al-Fulali would be fast asleep now, dreaming of his wedding day, lulled by the joyous trilling, the pledges of loyalty, the smiling faces. Mahalabiyya would be creeping along close to the wall toward the archway. Perhaps at this very moment she was crossing in front of the monastery to the sound of the anthems, driven on by the heat in her body, guided by her pounding heart. The melodies would mingle with her heartbeats, protecting her, driving away the loneliness of the dark night.
15.
A scream broke loose from the kingdom of darkness. A frenzied sound of terror and despair. It took on the shape of a hunted creature, robbed of the joy it had scarcely had time to know. It raised protesting eyes to the brilliant stars, hurled itself against the waves of song, and finally submitted to the harsh, mocking grip of silence.
16.
Samaha leapt from his hiding place like a scalded cat. Mahalabiyya. It couldn’t be anyone else. He rushed toward the square, throwing caution to the winds. The sound of running feet reached his ears, threatening violence. Somehow the secret had got out. An army of clubs and knives separated him from her. It was pointless to go on. He stood motionless, then retreated as the footsteps came closer. Halfway along the footpath he heard pounding feet from the direction of the graveyard. He was surrounded. Death loomed. The old city wall was impossibly high. The monastery wall had jagged glass embedded in the top of it. With all his strength he jumped and clung to its side, then hauled himself up and lay sprawled over it, his belly, chest, and limbs pierced by its needles of fire. Beyond human endurance.
The two groups met and spoke together in angry sentences.
“Where’s the snake got to?”
“Must have slipped out into the square.”
“There’s no sign of him there.”
“No sign of him here either.”
The pain tore at his body and spread into his soul. Hope faded and death seemed sweet.
17.
The clouds came down and hung in the air like mist, broken every now and then by the gleam of a star. Souls danced like phantoms. The water carrier distributed water skins full of tears. Ashur al-Nagi searched the empty alley, grieving for the victims. Then he took the plague by the scruff of the neck and danced a victory dance. In the monastery square he met Saint Khidr. “I’ve come to take you to Paradise,” said the saint, and Ashur went off arm in arm with him along a beam of light from a bright star.
Shams al-Din refused to grow old. He left senility begging on his doorstep, hoisted the fountain onto his shoulders, and went off toward the archway. The beggar never moved from his spot. Shams al-Din danced a victory dance. But where was Saint Khidr? The beggar never left his spot. How stubborn he was! He had no pity for Sulayman’s paralysis, was unmoved by his tears, and let him suffer a slow, tortuous decline. Where were the miracles and dreams? Blood filled the animals’ trough and the cistern of the fountain and congealed in people’s veins. But then the beggar spoke for the first time. “Ashur is not dead,” he said. “He will return before the crescent moon is in the sky.”
<
The first thing he felt was his eyelids moving, a sense of being alive at least, a flutter of consciousness. The mist in front of his eyes lifted slightly to reveal the frescoes on the ceiling stretching away to infinity. Merciful God! The murmuring voices, the colors were strangely familiar. Had the world survived? This creature before him was a woman: Diya, his uncle’s wife, bending over him in her innocent way, murmuring, “He’s dreaming so deeply.”
Khidr’s house. His good uncle’s voice repeating over and over, “Thank God.”
Now the memories came flooding over him. He had dragged himself back here, pouring blood. The monastery wall, fortified with glass. How cruel the hearts of the golden voices were! Mahalabiyya’s scream in the stillness of the night, the scream which had borne away all their hopes and dropped them lifeless behind the old wall. All that was left was his tormented heart. He heaved a deep sigh. His uncle whispered in his ear, “No one knows you’re here.”
“If the secret gets out none of us is safe,” said Radwan.
The truth had emerged, shamefaced. But who had betrayed him?
19.
His health improved daily. The tale came back to him in all its horror. Mahalabiyya had been murdered. Dozens of witnesses testified that he—Samaha—had enticed her to the square and killed her, resentful that she had chosen al-Fulali over him. Her mother was one of them. To save her skin she said what the real killers wanted to hear. So, according to her, Samaha had done the deed and fled.
“So it was poor Sabah who was forced to tell our secret,” said Samaha.
What should he do now? He had no choice but to run like his father, Bikr, and his grandmother, Saniyya. To vanish from sight like Ashur.
So as well as seeing his happiness disappear, he would have to say farewell to the monastery, the archway, the mosque, and the fountain, and all the familiar faces.
“How will you be treated?” he asked his uncle.
“Roughly and with contempt,” answered Khidr sadly.
Samaha sighed, but Khidr went on with more energy, “This time we have to make sure no one knows you’re leaving.”
20.
News reached them confirming that he had been sentenced to death in his absence.
“Now you really have to go,” said Khidr.