The Harafish (3 page)

He leaned back against the wall and noticed a cat preparing to terrorize a black dog. The dog turned aside to avoid a fight.

“Take care, Ashur,” he said to himself. “This is a warning from your parents!”

Then he abandoned himself to the caresses of pleasant dreams until the sun's rays burned him.

10
.

“Are you sure he can be trusted?” said Adlat to her husband, Zayn al-Naturi.

“Of course. He's become like a son to me.”

“Fine. Marry him to Zaynab,” she said impatiently.

Zayn al-Naturi frowned thoughtfully. “I'd hoped for someone better.”

“We've waited too long. Every time someone comes asking to marry one of her half sisters, you refuse because Zaynab's the oldest.”

“If she was your own flesh and blood you wouldn't say that.”

“She's spoiling my daughters' prospects. She's twenty-five years old, she's ugly, and she's getting more ill-natured from day to day.”

“If she was your own flesh and blood you wouldn't say that,” he repeated morosely.

“Isn't it enough that you trust him? You need someone you can trust in your old age.”

“What about Zaynab?”

“She'll be delighted. Save her from her desperation!”

11
.

Ashur heard Zayn calling him from his sitting room. He made room for him on a wooden sofa covered with a sheepskin rug. After a moment's hesitation Ashur sat down.

“Isn't it time you thought of getting married, Ashur?” his master asked him gently.

12
.

Light and joy: when the dream becomes a blessing, a song in the ear and the heart, and the faces of men shine with tolerance, and even insects no longer sting.

Ashur went to the Sultan baths and shaved and washed away the sweat, combed his hair, trimmed his mustache, sprinkled himself with rose water, and cleaned his teeth with a polished walnut twig. Then he strolled out in a flowing white robe and red leather slippers made especially for his huge feet.

The wedding was celebrated in the normal way in the al-Naturi house, and afterward the bride and groom set up home in a basement flat across the alley, composed of one room and an entrance hall. Ashur was overflowing with love, and some degenerate citizens, leaving the smoking dens well after midnight, would crouch in the darkness close to the basement window, listening and dreaming.

As time passed Hasballah, Rizqallah, and Hibatallah were born, Zayn and his wife died, and their daughters married.

Ashur was happy in his married life. He continued to work as a donkey boy with the animal al-Naturi had given him as a wedding present. Zaynab learned how to raise chickens and sold the eggs in the market. Life became easier and the hallway smelled of garlic, coriander, and cooking butter.

As the boys grew up they all learned different trades: Hasballah was apprenticed to a joiner, Rizqallah to a tinsmith, and Hibatallah to a laundryman. None of them was endowed with the giant stature of his father, but they were strong enough to win respect in the neighborhood. Ashur himself was known to be slow to anger and gentle, but none of Qanswa's men dared pick a quarrel with him. Zaynab did not share his pleasant nature: she was tense, suspicious, and sharp-tongued, but always hardworking and faithful.

She was five years older than he and while he preserved his youth and vitality she changed rapidly and faded before her time. But he only had eyes for her and never stopped loving her.

The years went by. With the money they had both earned Ashur bought a cart and progressed from donkey boy to driver. Zaynab remarked wryly, “Your customers were always men. From now on they'll all be women!”

“I hope they won't all be visiting the cemetery,” he laughed.

“I'll know if you're up to anything,” she warned.

It saddened him that he had begun to forget the Quran and remembered only the little bits he recited in his prayers. But his love of what was good had never wavered. He knew that Darwish Zaydan was not the only evil person in the world; that life was full of deceit and violence and villains like him. In spite of this, he persisted in trying to lead a decent life and judged himself harshly whenever he was involved in any wrongdoing. He never forgot that he had appropriated all Zaynab's savings and some of his sons' wages to buy the cart, and had made life hard for them sometimes and flown into violent rages.

He noticed some of his neighbors were having trouble from the clan chief and his men. He suppressed his anger, consoling the victims with futile words and calling for restraint. At last someone said to him, “It's true you're strong, Ashur, but what good is it to us?”

What were they blaming him for? What did they want him to do? He'd refused to join the oppressors. He'd only used his strength to help people. Wasn't that enough for them?

But his conscience troubled him like flies on a hot summer's day. People didn't understand him, he thought, and asked himself sadly how he would ever be at peace.

13
.

He squatted in the little square in front of the monastery, watching the last of the daylight disappear, greeting the evening and waiting for the anthems to fill the air. A chill autumn breeze, smelling of sorrow, slipped over the ancient wall, dragging the phantoms of night in its wake. Ashur appeared completely calm. There was not a single white hair on his head. He bore the burden of forty years
of existence but these years seemed to have given him the grace of the immortals.

A vague premonition made him look toward the graveyard path and he saw a man turning out of it with an indolent gait. He stared harder and in the fading light recognized who it was. His heart thumped and his pleasure ebbed away. The man came toward him and stopped in front of him, blocking out the monastery, smiling.

“Darwish Zaydan!” mumbled Ashur.

“Aren't you going to say hello? Good evening, Ashur!” said Darwish reprovingly.

Ashur stood up, extending his hand. “Hello, Darwish,” he said in an expressionless voice.

“I don't think I've changed that much.”

The resemblance to Afra was painful, but his features had grown coarser and harder.

“No.”

Darwish stared at him meaningfully and said, “Although everything else is changing.”

Ashur ignored this remark. “Where have you been all this time?” he asked.

“In prison,” he said casually.

“In prison!” exclaimed Ashur, although he was not surprised.

“I was just unlucky.”

“God is forgiving.”

“I hear things are going well for you?”

“I get by.”

“I need cash,” Darwish said laconically.

Ashur felt annoyed. He stuck a hand in his breast pocket and brought out a coin. “It's not much, but it's all I can afford.”

Darwish took it with a sullen expression, then said seriously, “Let's say a prayer for my brother's soul.”

They recited the prayer.

“I visit his grave regularly,” murmured Ashur.

“Can I stay with you until I get back on my feet?” asked Darwish boldly.

“I don't have room for a stranger,” Ashur snapped back.

“A stranger!”

“I only shook hands with you for Sheikh Afra's sake,” Ashur said stubbornly.

“Lend me a bit more,” persisted Darwish, “and I'll pay it back when things are easier.”

Ashur gave him as much as he wanted, even though he was extremely hard-up. Darwish went off toward the archway without a word while a sweet voice sounded from the monastery, singing:

Ze geryeh mardome chesh nesheste dar khunast
.

14
.

As Ashur drove along in his cart one day he noticed a group of men on some waste ground near the top of the alley. When he drew closer he saw they were building workers congregating around piles of sheet metal, wood planks, and palm branches. Among them was Darwish Zaydan. His heart sank: the man must be building himself a house there. As he passed, Darwish shouted to him, “I'm doing what I can to help the neighborhood.”

“A man needs a roof over his head,” Ashur responded dryly.

Darwish laughed loudly. “This is going to be a shelter for the homeless!”

15
.

“The story's out. The man's building a booze joint,” said Hasballah to his father.

“A bar?” demanded Ashur in shocked tones.

“That's what everyone says,” agreed Rizqallah.

“Lord!” exclaimed Ashur. “My cash helped build it!”

“Deeds are judged by the intentions behind them,” quoted Hibatallah.

“What do the authorities have to say?”

“He must have got a license, I suppose.”

Ashur remarked sadly, “We haven't managed to build a drinking fountain or a mosque for the alley yet. So how can they put up a bar?”

But the bar was well and truly built, and baptized by Qanswa and his men.

“He's got protection too,” observed Ashur dejectedly.

16
.

There was an uproar in the street outside the basement window. Why were they always fighting round here? Ashur sipped his coffee on the only sofa in the room. The lamp was not yet lit. A wintry blast rattled the window. Zaynab looked up from her ironing and said anxiously, “That's Rizqallah's voice!”

“Do you think it's the boys fighting?”

Zaynab rushed outside.

“You're crazy! Aren't you ashamed of yourselves?” he heard her shouting.

Ashur jumped to his feet. In a moment he was standing between his sons. They were quiet but the anger remained in their faces.

“Are you pleased with yourselves?” he demanded.

Glancing down, he saw a draught board and draughts scattered on the ground.

“Were you playing for money?” he inquired sharply.

No one answered. “When will you grow up?” he roared, ablaze with anger.

He drew Hasballah roughly to him. “You're the oldest, aren't you?”

From Hasballah's mouth came an alien smell, filling his nostrils, troubling him. He pulled the others to him, smelling their breaths. Ah! He wished the earth would perish with all its creatures.

“You're drunk! Bastards!”

He took hold of them by the ears, squeezing hard, his face
twitching with rage. A group of lads formed, watching with interest.

“Let's go indoors,” implored Hasballah.

“You're embarrassed before these people and not before God?” roared his father in his hoarse voice.

Zaynab tugged at his arms.

“Don't make a spectacle of us in front of this rabble.”

He let himself be led inside, muttering, “My sons are the rabble.”

“They're not children,” she whispered fiercely.

“They're no good. Just like their mother.”

“The bar's not short of customers!”

He sank down on the sofa. “It's no use expecting any help from you.”

She lit the lamp and put it in the window.

“I work harder than you,” she said mildly. “If it wasn't for me you wouldn't have the cart, and there'd be no one to light the stove for you.”

“All you've got is a tongue like a lash,” he said irritably.

“The boys have worn themselves out for you,” she shouted back angrily.

“They've got to be taught a lesson.”

“They're not children. They'll leave.”

She knew the quarrel would soon die down; hurtful words and loving whispers were two sides of the same coin.

Ashur wondered anxiously what could be done about his children. None of them had done well at Quran school. He and Zaynab had been too taken up with work to give them the attention they needed. Unlike him, they had had no Sheikh Afra to watch over them. They had absorbed the violence and superstitions of life in the alley and its virtues had passed them by. They hadn't even inherited his physical strength. They were not close to him or Zaynab. Whatever affection they felt was superficial and capricious. In their hearts they had turned against them long ago, although they had said nothing. They possessed no special talents and would remain apprentices all their lives. And here they were rushing to
drink in a bar at the first opportunity and not knowing when to stop.

Sadly he said, “They'll only bring us trouble and grief.”

“They're men,” she replied resignedly.

17
.

One day as he drove by the bar he heard Darwish's voice calling out a greeting. This time he did not ignore him, despite the loathing he felt for him. He brought the donkey to a halt and jumped down and stood in front of Darwish.

“This work is not fitting to your brother's memory,” he said sternly.

Darwish smiled sarcastically. “Isn't it better than mugging people?” he said.

“Just as bad.”

“Sorry, but I like risky ventures.”

“There's more than enough evil in this alley.”

“Drink makes bad men worse but it makes good men better. Come in and see for yourself.”

“It's a curse!”

He noticed a female figure moving swiftly around in the bar. “Are there women in there too?” he asked in surprise.

“It could have been Fulla.”

He had not seen the woman clearly enough to identify her. He asked again, “Do you have women customers as well?”

“Of course not. She's an orphan I've adopted. You can't imagine I'm capable of doing good, can you? But isn't adopting an abandoned child better than building a mosque?” he added significantly.

He accepted the taunt without protest. “Why bring her to the bar?”

“So that she can earn her keep by doing a bit of hard work!”

“What's the use?” murmured Ashur dispiritedly.

He jumped up into the driver's seat with a shout to the donkey, and the animal was off with a musical clip-clopping of its shoes on the cobbles.