The Harafish by Naguib Mahfouz
Although he was drunk, Ghassan realized he had gone too far, and staggered out of the bar.
18.
Nobody thought it necessary to tell Shams al-Din that his mother had been insulted.
“It’s ancient history. The boy never knew about it,” said Shaalan to Dahshan.
“But we should tell him Ghassan’s opposing him,” said Dahshan.
Shams al-Din decided to resolve the matter straightaway and confronted Ghassan as he sat in the café. With anger in his eyes he demanded, “Ghassan, do you think you can be faithful to me like you were to my father?”
“I’ve already given you my word,” said Ghassan flatly.
“But you’re a liar. I can’t trust you.”
“Don’t believe those traitors.”
“I believe people I know are loyal.” He leaned toward him. “From today you’re out of the clan.”
And Ghassan was never seen in the alley again.
19.
Nothing was changed from Ashur al-Nagi’s time. Like him, Shams al-Din protected the rights of the harafish and muzzled the rich and powerful, kept up his trade in spite of being chief and expected his men to do the same. He continued to live in the cramped basement flat, turning a deaf ear to his mother’s whispered entreaties. He was suffused with true greatness and he quenched the thirst in his heart with the people’s love and admiration. He began frequenting the little neighborhood mosque and made friends with the sheikh, Husayn Quffa. From the protection money paid by the rich he renewed the mosque furnishings, and at the sheikh’s suggestion founded a new Quran school beyond the fountain.
He never forgot his responsibility to the alley and its people, sharing the weighty burden of the trust placed in him with his most dependable followers. With the disappearance of Ashur, the venerable giant, neighboring chiefs had caught their breath and began to pick quarrels with street vendors from the alley. To establish his power and banish any lingering doubts, and to prove that his gentleness and delicate physique in no way detracted from his qualities as a chief, he decided to challenge the strongest of his rivals, the chief of the Atuf clan. An opportunity arose when an Atuf wedding procession passed through Citadel Square. Shams al-Din and his men held it up and a fierce battle followed, from which they emerged the undisputed victors. The news swept through the surrounding area and all who had toyed with the idea of challenging Shams al-Din were convinced that he was no less brave and strong than his father had been.
So the alley continued to live under its exemplary regime and preserved its reputation in the world beyond the square.
20.
Nevertheless, Shams al-Din returned from fighting the Atuf with an anxious heart. There was dust and dirt in the hurricane which had swept him drunkenly to power. As the Atuf chief squared up to him, he had shouted, “Come on, son of a whore! Your mother was a slut in Darwish’s bar! Who do you think you are?”
Everyone had heard these insults; the Atuf men cheered while the others roared with anger. Was he just working himself up for the fight, or talking about things that had really happened, things he was too young to know about? He went privately to see One-Eyed Shaalan to ask him what the man had meant.
“Just the yelping of a wounded dog,” said Shaalan firmly. “A woman chosen by Ashur al-Nagi to be his wife and produce his offspring is above all suspicion.”
He felt reassured, but not for long; he still hadn’t regained his peace of mind. Misgivings piled up in his heart like clouds on a rainy day. In his free time he watched Fulla surreptitiously. She was about forty, perhaps slightly less, very beautiful, small, slim, seductive, with eyes radiating sheer fascination. She was also pious and respectable with an impressively strong personality. He couldn’t imagine she was impure and cursed the man who had made him doubt her. He had been almost infatuated with her: Ashur had actually said to him one day, “A real man is not so attached to his mother.” And when he was still a little boy his father had taken him with him to work; Shams al-Din had eaten and slept in the cart, his life revolving around his father’s life, well out of reach of his mother’s warm embrace.
Still, he wondered what had gone on in Darwish’s bar. Were there men who knew things they shouldn’t about his mother’s past? He mumbled angry curses under his breath at those who dared profane her.
21.
One day he saw a face which transported him back into his childhood. He was driving his cart toward the main square when an unusual fight between a boy and girl blocked his way: the girl sprang at the boy like a tigress, striking him, spitting in his face, hurling a stream of abuse at him while he dodged out of her way, swearing back in even fouler language, and a group of curious onlookers stood laughing at them.
Seeing Shams al-Din, they greeted him, the fight stopped abruptly, and the boy ran off. The girl bent to pick up her black wrap from the ground and wound it tightly around herself, raising her eyes timidly to look at him. Shams al-Din liked her energy, her glowing face, her supple body. She noticed him staring at her and said apologetically, “He behaved badly, master. I was teaching him a lesson.”
“You did the right thing,” murmured Shams al-Din, smiling. “What’s your name?”
“Agamiyya.” Then, looking even more embarrassed, “Don’t you remember me?”
All at once he did, and said with surprise, “Of course I do. We used to play together.”
“But you didn’t recognize me!”
“You’ve changed a lot. Aren’t you Dahshan’s daughter?”
She inclined her head and walked off.
Dahshan’s daughter! What a change!
She had set his senses alight and his young blood pumped through his veins, burning like the midday sun.
22.
On the outskirts of the quarter of al-Ghuriyya, he saw Ayyusha, the door-to-door saleswoman, signaling to him. He stopped and noticed another woman with her, a splendid creature who was attracting the attention of the passersby: she wore a wrap of fine crepe material and a face veil with a gold nosepiece; her beautiful eyes were outlined with kohl and her body was firm and succulent. The two women took their seats in the cart and Ayyusha said in her old woman’s voice, “Darb al-Ahmar, master!”
He sprang to the driver’s seat, hoping to catch another glimpse of his mysterious passenger, while Ayyusha remarked, “How nice to see our chief driving a cart! And to think, if you wanted, there’s nothing to stop you living in the lap of luxury!”
He felt happy at her words but said nothing. He was enjoying the warmth of being in love and was suffused with the fragrance of true greatness, so he chased all notions of weakness and temptation from his head. He waited for the beauty to say something but she was silent the whole journey. When she descended in Darb al-Ahmar he was able to have a good look at her, keeping her in sight until she went off in the direction of Sheikhs’ Cloister.
As Ayyusha stayed where she was he turned toward her inquiringly. “To the citadel,” she muttered.
The cart went on its way. He remained silent even though he longed to speak. Suddenly the old woman asked him, “Is that the first time you’ve seen Qamr?”
“The very first,” he answered, grateful to her for initiating the conversation.
“That’s the way it is with virtuous women!”
“Is she from our alley?”
“Yes. A widow. Extremely beautiful and extremely rich!”
“Why doesn’t she hire a carriage?”
“She had a craving for our chief’s donkey cart!”
He turned to look at her and caught the hint of a sly smile in her dull eyes. His senses caught fire for the second time that day. He summoned Agamiyya’s image and the two women danced together in his mind until he felt drunk.
“You liked her then?” asked Ayyusha.
“What are you talking about, woman?” he said, pretending to be harsh.
Laughing, she said, “My trade is selling clothes and happiness.”
He decided not to pursue the conversation
As she got down at Citadel Square she said, “We’ve still got things to discuss. Remember Ayyusha’s there if you need her!”
23.
She rode on his cart again often, Ayyusha the saleswoman. The desire for conquest tempted him strongly, but his true weakness lay in his adolescent heart and his fiery youthfulness. Qamr disturbed him with her dazzling beauty, but so did Agamiyya with her youth. Perhaps he was going to spend his adolescent years trying to work out what it would mean to marry on the one hand a woman of Qamr’s standing, and on the other a young girl like Agamiyya. A storm was gathering on the horizon. Better to let it break and expose himself to its fury if this was the only way to have peace in the end.
One evening after dinner he saw that his mother was not her usual self. Her beautiful eyes glittered craftily, penetrating the whirlpool of his thoughts.
“What’s going on behind my back?” she asked sharply.
Fine. He was glad to be found out, longing to divulge the secrets of his rebellious heart. “What do you mean?”
She tilted her chin proudly, scorning the deception, and asked, “What’s Ayyusha up to?”
No secret was safe in Ayyusha’s toothless mouth, he thought, and smiled resignedly, murmuring, “She was just doing her job.”
“Qamr’s old enough to be your mother and she’s infertile,” retorted Fulla.
“But she’s rich and beautiful,” he replied, with the sole aim of provoking her.
“Her beauty won’t last much longer, and if you really want to be rich there’s nothing to stop you.”
“Do you want me to betray Ashur’s memory?” he asked reprovingly.
“Getting rich through a woman is no less shameful.”
“I don’t agree,” he lied, to enrage her further.
“Really! Then let me find you a rich man’s daughter to marry.”
“That would still be getting rich through a woman!”
“But in a normal way. There wouldn’t be anything perverted about it. To tell you the truth, it’s what I’ve dreamed of!”
He studied her anxiously. “I know you only accept our way of life because you have to. Do you really think I could take the people’s love lightly and turn my back on true greatness?”
“Then you were playing tricks on me?”
“Just teasing you!”
“I’m not as selfish as you think,” she said crossly. “Only yesterday I refused a rich man’s offer of marriage!”
He frowned uneasily, the blood rushing into his face.
“Ayyusha was the go-between there as well,” she added.
“Damn her!”
“I told her Ashur’s widow can’t accept another man in his place.”
“That’s the least you could have said,” he grunted, distaste written all over his face.
“I said it out of respect for your father, not because I was scared of you.”
“Who was this scoundrel?”
“He’s not a scoundrel, and he’s got every right to ask.”
“Who was he?”
“The wood merchant, Antar al-Khashshab.”
“He’s married already, and he’s not much older than me.”
She shrugged her shoulders carelessly. “That’s who it was. The trouble is, while we’re trying to ensure justice for others, we forget to look after ourselves.”
“I have to carry on my father’s work,” he said firmly.
She was ambitious and rebellious, he realized that. Again he wondered about the past of this woman he loved more than anyone else in the world.
24.
Shams al-Din acknowledged that his mother was strong and stubborn, and also that he loved and respected her not only as his mother but as the widow of Ashur, who was much more than just his father. He loved this reality embodied in Ashur more even than he loved him as a father: it was the focus of his life, the object on which he pinned his hopes, the secret of his fascination with the concept of true greatness.
This was why he had decided to make directly for his goal, avoiding fruitless detours.
That evening he went to the monastery square with his friend Dahshan. It was a clear summer’s night; the sound of chanting rose sweetly in the air and the stars above shone peacefully.
“This was where Ashur used to come to be alone and think his most sublime thoughts,” said Shams al-Din to Dahshan.
Dahshan muttered a prayer for his old master’s soul. Shams al-Din continued, “I’ve chosen it so that he’ll bless what I’m about to ask you.”
“I’m at your service. He’ll bless it,” muttered Dahshan, embarrassed.
Calmly Shams al-Din announced, “I want to marry your daughter, Agamiyya.”
Dahshan was taken completely by surprise and was unable to speak.
Gently Shams al-Din prompted him, “What do you say, Dahshan?”
“I’d never have dreamed of such an honor, master.”
Shams al-Din held out his hand. “Then let’s recite the prayer to clinch the deal.”
25.
On his way home Shams al-Din experienced some sharp pangs of regret at having defied his mother’s authority, so gentle and so powerful. Later, as he sat with her in the peaceful gloom, he said, “Mother, Dahshan has agreed to let me marry his daughter.”
For a moment Fulla seemed not to understand, then she glared at him, astonished. “What did you say?”
Hiding a sudden feeling of dislike for her, he repeated what he had said.
“I suppose this is another of your jokes?”
“No. It’s true.”
“Don’t you think you should have consulted me first?” she protested.
“She’s a suitable girl and her father’s an honest man.”
“I agree, but you should have spoken to me first.”
“I knew in advance what you thought and it’s out of the question.”
“What a waste!” she murmured sadly.
“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” he smiled.
She hesitated, then went up and placed a kiss on his forehead. “The Lord bless you in all you decide to do,” she muttered.
26.
Sheikh Mahmoud Qatayif asked to see Shams al-Din. Remembering just such a meeting in the past, Fulla cursed to herself, but her son welcomed him and sat him at his side on the only couch in the room. Although he was over sixty he seemed healthy and full of energy, his body so slender and sprightly that he looked as if he could live forever. Fulla served coffee, her head draped in a black veil, and inquired politely, “How are you, Master Mahmoud?”
The man returned her greeting and went on, “If only you would honor us with your presence, we could benefit from hearing your point of view!”
Fulla exchanged glances with her son, then perched on the edge of the bed. Shams al-Din prepared himself to listen, fearing the worst. He counted Mahmoud Qatayif among his secret detractors, like the notables and all those who had lost power and status under his regime.
“Tolerance is the chief of virtues and integrity the privilege of the powerful,” began Mahmoud.
Shams al-Din nodded his head without speaking and the sheikh went on, “To tell you the truth, I’ve been sent by the notables.”
“What do they want?” demanded Shams al-Din.
“They have an honorable and sincere desire to hold a wedding celebration for you.”
“I’ll celebrate my wedding according to my means as a carter,” stated Shams al-Din simply.
“But you’re also our chief, aren’t you?”
“That will never make me change my view, as you know.”
“You’re everybody’s chief. You’re answerable to the rich as well as the little people. Each group has the right to honor you in its own way.” Then, turning to Fulla, he added gallantly, “What do you think, madame?”
“It’s an honor he deserves, but it’s up to him,” replied Fulla shrewdly.
“Well said, as usual,” breathed Mahmoud Qata
Shams al-Din looked grim. “How can I accept an honor from people I know hate me?” he said.
“Not at all. No one hates justice. They just want to clear the air.”
“Such frivolities won’t help. I suppose there’s a lot more to it. Tell me what you know!”
Mahmoud looked disconcerted for a moment, then declared, “They say that everyone enjoys justice and fair treatment except the rich and those who really work hard for a living. Is that justice?”
So the shadowy armies were on the move, determined to snuff out the torches lighting up the little lanes and dark corners of the alley. They imagined him to be a raw youth, attracted by fine trappings just like his pretty mother. Raise high Ashur’s knotted club and strike at the specters of illusion and sedition!
Roughly he asked, “Don’t they enjoy security and peace of mind?”
“Tolerance, master! Why do you only take protection money from them?”
“They’re the only ones who can afford it.”
“But people interpret it as it suits them and despise them!”
“They’re only interested in promoting themselves, and to hell with other people!” cried Shams al-Din angrily.
Mahmoud Qatayif lapsed into silence for a while, then said, “It’s their right to demand respect commensurate with their achievements.”
“What do you mean?”
“Where would we be without them? Their houses adorn the alley, their names shine like stars in the neighborhood, their shops keep us abundantly supplied with food and clothes, and the mosque, the fountain, the trough, and the new Quran school have all been built with their money. Isn’t that enough?”
Furiously Shams al-Din burst out, “If it hadn’t been for my father, no one would have seen a penny of their money. Take a look at what happens in other alleys!”
Again the sheikh fell silent. He seemed uncertain what to say next. “Speak,” urged Fulla. “The messenger only has to deliver the message.”
Taking heart from her words, he went on, “They think they’re unfairly treated, and they think you and your men are too. They say power should be in the hands of the rich and influential whom God has favored, without denying for a moment that the poor have a right to justice.”