The Harafish (12 page)

Noticing the henna powder one day Shams al-Din said teasingly to her, “What's the point of trying to hide it, my lady?”

“If gray hair's really a sign of old age,” she retorted, “why's your hair still black?”

Coal-black hair and a physique composed of beauty, strength, and grace—she felt boundless love and admiration for him, tinged with fear and jealousy. He had never taken a second wife and had only been unfaithful once or twice with a woman the age of his mother. But who knew what the future had in store?

41
.

One morning as he was combing his hair Agamiyya suddenly stared hard at his head and with ill-concealed joy exclaimed, “A white hair!”

He turned toward her, suddenly alert, as he would turn when the signal for battle was given. He shot her an irritated look, and she said, “I swear it was a white hair.”

He squinted into the little mirror he held in his hand. “Liar,” he muttered uncertainly.

She approached him, eyes fixed on her goal like a cat stalking a mouse, detached a single hair from his abundant crop, and pronounced triumphantly, “There it is.”

He examined his hair in the mirror again. There was nothing he could do, no point resisting. It was as if he had been caught doing something wrong. Like years and years ago when he was sneaking into Ayyusha's basement. His heart filled with anger, resentment, and shame. He avoided meeting her eyes. “So what?” he said scornfully. “You're just jealous!”

42
.

This episode did not simply pass harmlessly into oblivion, as Agamiyya had expected. He made a thorough examination of his head every morning after that and she regretted opening her mouth.

“Having gray hair doesn't mean you're not strong and healthy,” she said soothingly.

But he began to wonder about his age. How had he got so
old? Where had all the time gone? Wasn't it only yesterday he had defeated Ghassan? How was it Dahshan had already gone senile and started to walk like a small child? What good was a chief who had lost his strength?

“All we can do is pray God we keep healthy,” went on Agamiyya.

“Why do you keep repeating these meaningless clichés?” he asked in exasperation.

She laughed, trying to soften the effect of his anger, and said, “There's nothing wrong with men dyeing their hair.”

“I'm not completely stupid!” he exclaimed.

For the first time he began to brood on what was past and what was to come. He thought about people who had died, about saints who had lived for a thousand years. About the processes of decay which turn strong men into objects of ridicule. Betrayal was not only caused by spiritual weakness or the acts of men. It was easier by far to wreck an armed parade than to unsay things that should never have been said. You could rebuild a ruined house, but not a human being. The pleasure of the music is only a short-lived veneer on the song of parting.

He wrapped his headcloth around his head and asked her, “Do you know what I'd pray for?”

When she was silent he said, “People to die before they get old.”

43
.

After he had gone out Agamiyya said to herself that all people could do was have faith.

When she was told that her father had died she shrieked so loudly that the window bars shook.

44
.

She wept bitterly for her father. She used to say that a person who has lived for a long time becomes a precious habit, without which life is hard to imagine. Shams al-Din grieved for the loss of a friend
who had been his father's friend before him, but it was the death of the wood merchant, Antar, which upset him most. Antar was roughly his own age, his generation, and his health had deteriorated rapidly after a sudden stroke. However, death did not concern him as much as old age and frailty. He hated the idea of beating all the other clan chiefs only to succumb helplessly to the mysterious sorrow of age.

“Wasn't Ashur al-Nagi lucky simply to vanish at the height of his powers?” he marveled.

45
.

As he sat in the café a friendly struggle took place under his nose between his son, Sulayman, and another youth in the clan called Atris. For the first few minutes their strength and skill were perfectly matched, but eventually Sulayman came through and beat his friend.

Shams al-Din seethed with anger. He found it intolerable that Atris had held out against Sulayman for more than a few seconds and took no pleasure in his victory. Sulayman was strong enough, being the same build as Ashur, but had none of his agility and skill.

46
.

Shams al-Din took Sulayman up onto the roof of their building and stripped down to his loincloth. He stood bathed in the golden rays of the setting sun. “Now you do the same,” he said.

“Why, father?” asked the boy hesitantly.

“Because I say so.”

They stood face-to-face, Shams al-Din strong and graceful, Sulayman built like a giant, the living image of Ashur.

“Now fight me with all the strength you've got,” ordered Shams al-Din.

“Spare me the shame.”

“Come on! You'll find out strength isn't everything.”

He grabbed hold of him with force and persistence. They grappled, their muscles bulging.

“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 fifty, said to him one day, “You've earned a rest.”

“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.