The Harafish by Naguib Mahfouz
How did he view her? As a merchant views his servant? She didn’t really like him. She’d always seen him as weak and servile. But he had the power to give her some kind of status and class. Could she hope for anything better than him?
She smiled at him encouragingly.
34.
Abd Rabbihi got so thoroughly drunk that the floor of the bar moved beneath his feet. “Is it shameful for a man to cry?” he asked Sanqar al-Shammam.
The bar owner snorted with laughter. “If he’s the size of a mule, like you!”
Abd Rabbihi cradled the calabash in his hands and began rocking it from side to side as if he was dancing. “Take yourself away, Abd Rabbihi,” he said out loud. “Go and hide yourself in the darkness. Even the dust in the alley has more strength than you. The only time you test your strength is pushing dough into the oven. God have mercy on you!”
“What’s got into your head?”
“Divorce. I divorced her. With a single word, I ruined everything. Even a louse puts up a fight. How your enemies must be gloating, Abd Rabbihi!”
“It’s an honor to obey the clan chief,” cautioned Sanqar.
“Then I thank God,” he muttered hurriedly, taking fright even though he was drunk. “But there’s something else weighing on my mind,” he added with a sigh.
“What’s that?”
“I still love the damned woman.”
“That’s what really disgraces a man,” laughed Sanqar.
“Strange, by God, it’s strange,” sang Abd Rabbihi in a voice like a donkey braying.
“Keep singing! Singers have always been crossed in love, from what I can make out!”
35.
Abd Rabbihi went back to delivering bread to Madame Raifa’s house after several well-disposed people had put in a good word for him.
“I hope you’re not angry with me anymore?” he ventured timidly one day.
“I’m ready to let bygones be bygones,” she said coldly.
He hesitated, then implored, “Leave me alone with her for a minute.”
She looked warily at him. “No.”
“I’ll talk to her in front of you then.”
She pondered briefly, then called Zahira who appeared in a navy dress, looking as fresh as a flower. They gazed at each other and she did not blink or lower her eyes. She seemed like a stranger, distant and cool. A picture quite at variance with the struggle raging in the depths of her soul.
“I never meant any harm. Let’s forget what happened.”
She said nothing.
“I’m sorry for what I did.”
“Say something, Zahira,” prompted Raifa.
“I want you back. Our life together must mean something,” said Abd Rabbihi.
“No,” mumbled Zahira.
“We can’t forget we were man and wife, or say it doesn’t matter anymore. We had some good times.”
She lowered her gaze for the first time and said resolutely, “We no longer have any hold over each other.”
36.
Muhammad Anwar slipped into the house when Raifa was out. He confronted Zahira impatiently. “I know I shouldn’t be here, but I’d risk anything for you. Come with me now and we’ll get married.”
“What makes you so sure I want to marry you?” she demanded haughtily.
“I love you, Zahira,” he declared humbly.
“So why are you asking me to run away like a thief?”
“There’s no other way. Madame Raifa would never agree.”
“Have you discussed it with her?” she asked in astonishment.
He hung his head sorrowfully. “She’s stubborn and arrogant.”
Cut to the quick, she said proudly, “I’m a Nagi!”
“She’s stubborn and arrogant. She ordered me to stop visiting her—I was born in this house!”
A wave of anger rushed over her. “I’ll come with you straightaway,” she said.
37.
Zahira married Muhammad Anwar, the caviar merchant. Raifa was furious and accused her of malice and treachery. The news took the alley by surprise. People talked of nothing else; words like good luck, destiny, the marvels of love, were bandied about. Zahira took Galal with her and Muhammad welcomed him, thinking himself the happiest of God’s creatures.
For the first time Zahira was mistress in her own home, a richly furnished flat with many rooms, and a bathroom and a kitchen and a storage tank, which was replenished daily by the water carrier. She had dresses, rich wraps, gold-embroidered veils, necklaces, earrings, gold bangles, and silver anklets.
Her table was laden with delicious food, almost as good as the food served by Aziza and Raifa. She ran the household and was its cook at the same time.
Scarcely a month had gone by before she decided to break free and come out of seclusion, going to visit her mother or a neighbor or al-Husayn mosque. People saw her in her finery and muttered admiringly to themselves.
38.
Married to Zahira, Muhammad Anwar was happy beyond his wildest dreams. He made no secret of his love and passionate devotion, and indulged her without restraint. From the beginning he was uneasy at her going out and exposing her dazzling beauty to all and sundry. Very tactfully he let her know how he felt, but she was visibly irritated and he quickly backed down and went to even greater lengths to please her. He discovered he could put up with anything but seeing her angry or miserable. He knew he was weak where she was concerned, that he was flying in the face of traditional advice, but he submitted readily, not allowing himself even to contemplate resistance, and yet fully aware that he was at the mercy of love’s whims and caprices.
A terrifying feeling haunted him, like a monster from a fairy tale, that he did not yet fully possess his darling and perhaps never would, that she would always elude his grasp. It was the sickly feeling of defeat. He invented excuses, sought comfort in his illusions, and smothered his bitterness with gifts and sweet words. He was love’s slave, valued for what was in his hand rather than for his heart or his body. The red of sunset and the red of dawn were all the same to him, so he lost nothing by acting gentle and sweet to win a smile from the parted rosy lips, a glance from the dark eyes, a satisfied toss of the graceful head.
39.
One day Zahira visited her benefactress Aziza. “I was forced by circumstance to live in someone else’s house, but my heart is loyal,” she assured her, kissing her hand.
Aziza was gladdened by her words. She brushed her cheek with her lips, made her sit down beside her, and treated her as an equal. A warm gust of happiness and pride filled her. They drank cinnamon tea and ate almonds and slices of watermelon. Aziza asked how she was, inquired about her husband and Galal. Then Ulfat came to greet her.
“Your beauty has found its reward, and beauty is the key to many different worlds,” Aziza told her.
“No. It’s your prayers and kindness, madame,” answered Zahira.
40.
“Won’t you visit Raifa too?” was Muhammad Anwar’s comment when Zahira returned.
“That arrogant woman! To hell with her!” retorted Zahira, almost choking with annoyance.
“She’ll go crazy!”
“Let her.”
“There’s no telling what she’ll do,” he muttered anxiously.
“What kind of a man are you?” she teased with a mocking glance from under lowered lids.
His heart sank and he was silent.
41.
That afternoon the alley witnessed an unforgettable scene.
Zahira was promenading along in her fine clothes when Raifa’s carriage stopped beside her. Raifa’s head poked out and her voice could be heard, reproachful, but with a touch of affection in it: “Zahira!”
Zahira turned in confusion.
“Traitor!” said Raifa.
Zahira had no choice but to approach her, holding out her hand, in full view of the numerous bystanders, including Gibril al-Fas, Khalil al-Dahshan, and Abd Rabbihi the baker.
“When are you coming to v
“As soon as I can,” answered Zahira, her confusion mounting. “The only thing stopping me was…” She tailed off in embarrassment.
Suddenly hostile and aggressive, Raifa said, “I’d be happy to welcome my faithful servant.”
At once Zahira’s anger blazed. “I’m the same as you now!” she shouted.
She rushed off, blinded by emotion.
42.
Abd Rabbihi was getting drunk in the bar while the March winds raged outside.
“Yesterday I had a strange dream,” he said.
Nobody asked him what he had dreamed, but he went on anyway. “I dreamed the khamsin winds blew at the wrong time of the year.”
“A diabolical dream!” laughed Sanqar al-Shammam.
“Doors came off their hinges, dust fell like rain, hand barrows flew through the air, turbans and headcloths blew away.”
“What happened to you?”
“I felt as if I was dancing on the back of a Thoroughbred stallion!”
“Tuck the cover tightly around your arse before you go to sleep!” advised Sanqar.
43.
Muhammad Anwar felt fear creeping over him. Dangerous ghosts danced in the corners of his constricted world. Was he going to suffer the same fate as the baker Abd Rabbihi? He began stealing glances at Zahira’s face, gathering his resolve. At last he managed to speak. “You’re four months pregnant, Zahira. It’s better for you to stay indoors.”
“I’m not helpless yet,” she answered scornfully.
He turned to Galal and started playing with him to soften the impact of his words. “You’ve challenged a power that isn’t to be trifled with. It would be prudent for us to lie low.”
“It’s as if you’re scared,” she said frostily.
“Not at all. I just want to safeguard our happiness,” he said, trying to hide his irritation.
“I’ve got every right to go out.”
“The truth is, I’m not happy about it.”
“The truth is, I can’t bear what you’re trying to make me do.”
“But I’m your husband.”
“Does that mean you can trample me underfoot?”
“God forbid! But I have undeniable rights.”
A scowl appeared on her face, clouding her beauty. “No,” she said fiercely.
He hesitated, uncertain whether to persist or say nothing, but he felt her scorn and was provoked to repeat angrily, “I have my rights.”
“Your rights are giving me a headache.”
“You owe me obedience,” he burst out with unaccustomed heat.
She stared at him in astonishment.
His fury mounted. “Complete obedience,” he repeated.
Zahira’s features set hard in an expression of refusal and the atmosphere was thoroughly spoiled.
44.
Muhammad Anwar drew courage from his despair. In his heart he was afraid of losing her, and so when he saw her emerging into the street from his shop, he abandoned his composure and rushed to block her path.
“Go back home,” he said firmly.
“Don’t cause a scandal,” she whispered in astonishment.
“Go home,” he repeated stubbornly.
She felt the eyes slithering toward her, snakelike, and was forced to go in, seething with rage.
45.
In the evening when he went home Muhammad Anwar was met by a tempest. He had fully expected it. The last thing he wanted was to continue being angry, to create a bad atmosphere, to see the beauty he adored destroyed through hostility and resentment. He showed a willingness to accept any compromises, provided Zahira gave in to his single legitimate demand.
“Don’t imagine that I enjoy humiliating you,” he said to her. “All I want is for us to be happy.”
But she came at him like a dust storm, her face sickly yellow, her expression transformed, and sparks flying from her eyes. Her anger had materialized into black loathing, pride darted out at him like a viper. “God protect me from the evil in your heart,” he said to himself. “Think what I’ve made of you! Doesn’t that work in my favor?”
46.
Zahira found herself in a hellish situation. She refused to accept defeat. She would not forget the painful confrontation in the alley. She didn’t love him, had never loved him. But what could she do, and where would she go? In a situation like hers the wife returned to her family, but she had no family. She had a choice between submitting and preserving her status or walking the streets. There would be no shortage of people waiting to gloat, including Abd Rabbihi in his basement.
She remembered her first benefactor, Master Aziz, a leading notable and her husband’s friend. At least her husband would know that she was not entirely without family support.
She slipped out to the cereal merchant’s. A fine rain fell on her black wrap and her cheeks, prominent above the veil. She burst into his office and found him alone. He had an attractive dignity about him, as always. His mustache was prematurely gray. He knew her at once, in spite of her veil. He had no need to remember those fascinating eyes, looking at him from either side of the gold nosepiece of her veil. He felt that this was fate storming his defenses. He heard the sweet voice. “You’re the only person I can turn to in my trouble.”
“It’s nothing serious, I hope?” he inquired, struggling to control his conflicting emotions.
“My husband.”
“He’s a good man, as far as I know.”
“But he’s started treating me much worse recently.”
“For no reason?”
“He wants to control me.” She told him the story of the incident in the alley. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “He behaved rather foolishly, but there’s no denying he’s within his rights.”
“There’s not a woman in our alley who has to stay imprisoned in the house!” she declared fervently.
Master Aziz smiled. “I’ll talk to him about you since you’re a Nagi, but you’ll have to agree to be sensible.”
47.
Aziz’ intervention achieved very little. She had no choice but to submit, even if it was only for a while, and grudgingly. However, the meeting with Aziz had revealed possibilities which had never crossed her mind before. Exciting, crazy, wonderful possibilities that plunged her into a world bursting with dreams. She said to herself that Aziz liked her. No, it was more than that. His eyes had acknowledged his fascination. When had this begun? Every man that saw her was fascinated by her, but Aziz was not like the rest! Furthermore, he was married and so was she, and he was also middle-aged and renowned for his high-mindedness and untarnished reputation. A man like him wouldn’t look at a married woman, the wife of a friend. And she had no interest in an illicit relationship. What would be the point? She was bent on getting her due and in the process had suppressed her emotions mercilessly, although she had tasted a rush of sublime frenzy sometimes in a glass of blessed wine. Aziz Nagi had appeared to her in a rosy dreamlike glow: she had no idea how this could materialize in the real world. Could she, some magical day, become Ulfat’s co-wife, and almost a daughter to Madame Aziza, preside over a magnificent house and have her own carriage with a tinkling bell?
Muhammad Anwar dwindled, until he turned into a smut blowing away down a road that stretched endlessly into the distance.
48.
When the peasant women arrived in town celebrating the flooding of the Nile and selling their dates, Zahira was giving birth to her second son, Radi, in considerable pain.
Muhammad Anwar’s happiness distracted him from his other worries and he hoped the baby’s birth would be the beginning of a new era of prudent, successful matrimony.
Umm Hishim, the midwife, tended Zahira each day until she had fully recovered. On her last visit she dropped her voice to a whisper and said, “I’ve got a message for you.”
Zahira looked inquiringly at her.
“A letter from heaven!” announced the old woman.
The notion that it was fro
Umm Hashim’s features wore the pale mask of sin. “Nuh al-Ghurab, our local chief,” she said.
Zahira’s heartbeat quickened in surprise. She had expected a comet from the east and one had come from the west instead. “Can’t you see that I’m a wife and a mother?” she said crossly, regaining her composure.
“The sun rises and sets every day,” declared the old woman. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
49.
Muhammad Anwar soon relented. He forsook the hard character he had temporarily assumed and retreated into his natural state of weakness. He was finally convinced that Zahira was a jewel without a heart who would slip through his fingers like the wind. Yet he could not imagine life without her. She was its breath, its guiding habit. She was also very dangerous, and there was not one part of her that he trusted. How could he forget what had happened to Abd Rabbihi the baker? The more his confidence was shaken, the more he longed to cling to her and keep hold of her at any price. If he failed in that it meant his whole life was a failure. In this world and the next. The quarrel between her and Raifa would remain a source of annoyance to him for all time. He was aware that he was the most wretched of men and should be ready to make any sacrifice required of him.
They were sitting together in the evening as usual, Zahira feeding Radi on the divan, Muhammad smoking a water pipe, and Galal playing with the cat. He could no longer stand Galal. He had always liked him and been kind to him in the past, but as soon as Radi came along he began to hate him and wished he would cease to exist. But he treated him the same as he always had done. He was cheerful and fatherly, but it was false now, an added worry in his catalogue of griefs.
He had decided to do the impossible to win her over. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” he announced.
She looked at him without interest.
“A peace offering.”
She smiled, and he went on, “A formal contract making you the owner of the house!”
She flushed. “What a generous man you are!” she exclaimed in delight.
It was a three-storied house with a shop selling ful beans on the ground floor.