The Harafish (45 page)

Fayiz usually came—when he did come—at midmorning, showing off his splendid clothes and fine carriage. They all rose to greet him and noticed immediately that the miracle of the family looked tired and cross. He sat on a divan, pushing his cloak back off his shoulders, despite the cold.

“What's wrong?” asked his mother anxiously.

“Nothing,” he said listlessly.

“I know there is, son!”

“I'm not well.”

His words tailed off. They all looked at him and saw a hardness in his expression that used to be there in the old days, before he made good.

Halima got to her feet. “I'll make you a caraway tisane.”

“Then you can sleep,” murmured Diya.

Fayiz let his eyelids droop for a moment, then said, “There are times a man can't help longing for home.”

“The winter's been bad this year,” said Ashur.

“Worse than you can imagine!”

“And you work harder than most men could bear to.”

“Than most men could bear to,” he repeated vaguely.

“A man has a right to rest,” said Diya.

“I've decided to have a long rest.”

Silence fell. He stood up abruptly. “I'm off to bed.”

Halima took him his tisane. The candelabra lit up the room. Fayiz lay on the bed fully clothed.

“Why don't you get undressed?” she asked.

Then suddenly the glass slipped from her hand and she let out a piercing scream.

21
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They stood staring with crazed expressions.

His eyes were wide open, his face frozen, as if he had been dead for a thousand years. His left hand hung down over the edge of the luxuriant bedcovers and below it a little pool of blood was forming on the Shiraz carpet. A gold-handled dagger lay on his beige caftan. Diya began to search feverishly behind the divan, under the bed, in the cupboard, combing the room whose windows were closed and shuttered. “It's absurd! What can it mean?” he shouted.

“The Prophet save us!” cried Halima hoarsely.

“The barber!” shouted Ashur, and flew out of the room.

Halima began to wail.

Diya screamed at her. “He's still alive.”

“It's over,” she sobbed. “My son! Why did you do this to yourself?”

The barber surgeon arrived, followed by Yunis al-Sayis, Galil al-Alim, and members of the Khashshab and Attar families.

He took one look at Fayiz and retreated, muttering, “Only God is immortal.”

A demented wind swept through the elegant house.

22
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The police arrived shortly before midnight, interrogated the family and the servants, and examined all the possibilities with scrupulous care.

“Why do you think he did it?” the officer in charge asked the assembled family.

“Until yesterday he was the happiest man alive,” said Halima.

“Do you know if he had any enemies?”

“None at all.”

“What was his occupation?”

“He was a businessman, a speculator.”

“Where did he work?”

“Nowhere in particular. He had a house in Darasa, in the foothills.”

“What do you know of his employees and his partners?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“How's that possible?”

“It's the truth.”

23
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It was announced that Fayiz had committed suicide for reasons which the inquiry had so far failed to identify. Despite the manner of his death, he was given a splendid funeral and buried beside Shams al-Din.

The three days of the mourning ceremonies passed with the family in a state of shock, unable to find an explanation for this terrible disaster.

24
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Why had Fayiz al-Nagi killed himself? The question weighed on them, plagued their confused, sorrowing minds. The authorities—so Yunis al-Sayis claimed—were taking the inquiry very seriously.
But how had they themselves not known what was happening until the last moment? How had they been so completely blind? He had been absent for long periods, kept most of the details of his work a secret, but his infrequent visits home had filled the house with joy and delight and hope for the future. Until his last visit, when he'd been a different person. What had changed him? How had death become his only way out?

“We're cursed,” wailed Halima.

“Why did he do it? I'm going mad,” groaned Diya.

“If we do find out why, it won't be pleasant,” said Ashur. “People don't kill themselves for no reason.”

25
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The two brothers decided to search the deceased's house to try to find the key to his secrets, his business dealings, his sources of finance. The authorities agreed to escort them there. It was an enormous house with extensive land abutting the hills. They were struck by the large number of luxurious apartments, the stocks of drink and drugs, the profusion of furniture and ornaments, but when they forced open the safes and strongboxes they found them completely empty. No documents, letters, ledgers, or cash. The two brothers exchanged bewildered glances.

“What does it mean?” asked Ashur.

“Where's all his wealth?” asked Diya.

Ashur turned to one of the detectives. “Do you know something we don't?” he asked him.

“We'll leave no stone unturned,” said the man.

26
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Diya and Ashur returned from their failed journey of discovery utterly confused. The riddle was more obscure and murkier than ever and they were beset by apprehensions. Fayiz had left them secure before he died: they and their mother had inherited the coal yard and two wonderful houses. But what about his own wealth and his mysterious life?

“Perhaps he went bankrupt,” said Diya thoughtfully.

“Why kill himself, when he still had the coal business and two mansions?” objected Ashur.

Diya shook his head uncomprehendingly. “Why do people kill themselves at all?”

27
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Fayiz' suicide dominated the interest of the drinkers in the bar.

“Why would a man like that kill himself?” said Zayn al-Alabaya.

“It wasn't because he went bust,” said Sheikh Yunis. “What he left would have made him one of the richest men in the alley.”

“You must have some more information, being a lawman yourself,” goaded Zayn.

Not wanting to announce his lack of information, Yunis said guardedly, “They're following up all his contacts.”

“There's a much more telling reason than insolvency,” said Hassuna al-Saba sarcastically.

All heads turned respectfully toward him.

“Madness!” he guffawed. “It's in their blood. Even their revered ancestor was a foundling and a thief.”

28
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The Nagi family's life dragged by miserably. Naturally, the weddings were postponed. Diya and Ashur carried on with their daily routine, but the spark of joy and creativity had been extinguished in their souls. Halima was practically a recluse and stayed in her apartments, mulling over her sorrows and taking comfort in prayer.

29
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One evening, when winter winds were lashing the alley, Sheikh Yunis arrived at the house with the police inspector and a pack of detectives.

“Who owns the coal business and the two houses?” asked the inspector.

“They belonged to our dead brother. We inherited them.”

“Show me the title deeds.”

Diya went away and came back with a medium-sized silver box, and the inspector began examining the documents. He looked from Halima to her two sons. “It all belongs to somebody else,” he announced.

Nobody took in what he said. Not a trace of emotion crossed their faces.

“All the trade and real estate in your hands belongs to someone else. It never belonged to Fayiz. Therefore you have no rights to it.”

“What are you talking about?” shouted Diya.

“You must give up this house and the coal yard immediately.”

“There must be some mistake.”

“Fayiz had sold everything. The new owner's come forward with the contract and it's all in order.”

“Are you telling us the truth?” asked Ashur in disbelief.

The inspector was gentle but firm. “We wouldn't come here at this time of night for fun.”

“It's impossible to take in.”

“You'd better start trying!”

“So where's the money from the sale?” demanded Diya.

“Only God and the dead man know that.” He was silent for a few moments, then went on, “Perhaps it was a fictitious sale. Maybe it was lost in some crazy wager. The investigation will no doubt uncover more dirt!”

“It's impossible to take in,” repeated Diya.

“It's quite simple. He was robbed,” said Ashur.

“Then why did he kill himself instead of reporting it?”

“There must be some crime involved, inspector.”

“A whole string of crimes! The inquiry's still in its early stages!”

30
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The family waited helplessly, the death sentence hanging over them. The inspector repeated, “A whole string of crimes. Bad crimes,” then added, “You'll have to come with us.”

“Where to?” asked Halima in a quaking voice.

“The station.”

“They need you to help with the inquiry,” put in Sheikh Yunis kindly.

“Are you charging us?” Ashur asked the inspector.

“Let's wait and see,” he replied firmly.

31
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The inquiry was long and exhausting. They were held in the police station for a week while it was going on but eventually it was established that they had no links with the mysterious work Fayiz did when he was away from them and they were released. They returned to the alley, disgraced, homeless.

32
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The facts had preceded them like a rotten smell. Everyone, young and old, friend and foe, knew that Fayiz had begun his escapade by selling the stolen cart, then invested his money in whores, gambling, drugs, and the trappings of debauched luxury. He gambled with money he didn't have and when he lost he would entice his creditor to his house in the foothills with promises of women and drugs, kill him, take his money, and bury him in the grounds. On the last occasion he lost all his liquid assets and was forced to gamble with his real estate in the form of a fictitious bill of sale, and lost that too. This time he had failed to kill his creditor and the man had escaped with his money still on him. Ruined, and threatened with exposure, Fayiz had killed himself. The police had received an anonymous letter—perhaps from a one-time associate—
which had led them eventually to his victims' graves. So the appalling secret of his success and final downfall was uncovered.

33
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They returned to the alley, disgraced, homeless.

Their story was a gem for the spiteful, a nightmare for the morbidly fanciful and neurotic. Al-Saba, al-Alabaya, and al-Agal added fuel to the flames. Such was the strength of the hatred directed at them that they were spat upon and punched in the street. They fled down the archway and along the path by the old city wall, and ended up in the cemetery.

Sheikh Galil, imam of the mosque, tried to intercede for them. “Don't punish them for something they didn't do.”

“Shut up,” roared Hassuna al-Saba, “or I'll strangle you with your own turban!”

The Khashshabs and the Attars were among the first to wash their hands of them.

34
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The fugitives took up residence in the mourners' chamber of Shams al-Din's tomb. They only had a few piastres to their name, and their immediate troubles made the sorrows of death and bankruptcy recede into the background. Dry-eyed, even Halima, they huddled close to one another, taking comfort from the closeness of their bodies, warmed by their collective heartbeat, as the winter wind growled around the tombstones.

“Bastards!” raged Diya.

“We must think what to do,” urged Halima.

“Our only choice is to become gravediggers,” scoffed Diya bitterly.

“The dead are nicer to live with,” said his mother.

“Have we really been forced out of the alley?” demanded Ashur in disbelief.

“Why not go back and wash your face in their spit again!” said his brother.

“We'll survive anyhow,” said Ashur defiantly.

“We could try begging again!”

Outside the winter wind growled around the tombstones.

35
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The next day their misery entered a new stage, distinguished mainly by inertia.

“We've no time to lose,” said Halima.

Diya remarked that they had no time, no money, no friends, no nothing.

Ignoring him, she went on, “Where ought we to go?”

“The world's our oyster!” answered Diya.

“Let's stay here, close to the alley, until we can go back,” said Ashur.

“Go back?” repeated Diya scathingly.

“Why not? One day we're sure to. And there's nothing for us anywhere else.”

“Let's stay here for a little while at least,” said Halima peaceably.

“I didn't sleep a wink last night,” said Diya. “I thought so much, the dead must have heard my brain humming. I've made up my mind.”

“To do what?”

“Not to stay here.”

His mother ignored him, and said, “I'll go back to work, and make sure I keep well away from the alley.”

“I'll sell fruit in the street,” said Ashur.

Annoyed at the way they took no notice of him, Diya repeated loudly, “I'm going, even if it means leaving you here.”

“Going where? And what will you do?” asked his mother.

“I don't know,” he said, still angry. “I'll take my chance.”