The Harafish (46 page)

“Like Fayiz did,” she said sadly.

“Certainly not! There are other ways.”

“For example?”

“I'm not a prophet!”

“Stay with us,” said Ashur gently. “We need each other more than ever now.”

“No. It's too late.”

36
.

Diya said goodbye to his mother and brother and left. Halima's eyes were filled with tears but there was no room for sorrow. She and Ashur led a cruel, harsh life. She peddled her sweets and pickles like a beggar woman, and Ashur sold fruit and vegetables from a little basket on his giant shoulders. It was as if they had some unspoken agreement to endure the present and avoid complaining or digging up the past. But for all that the past remained deeply rooted within the two of them: memories of their beautiful house, the opulence, the splendid carriage, the manager's office, generously cut coats, garnet prayer beads, the scents of musk and amber, good conversation. Aziza al-Attar with her yashmak and happy smile. The flattery of Yunis al-Sayis and his customary morning greeting: “God give you a happy day, you whose face shines with light!” Ah, Fayiz! What did you do to yourself, and to us? Even Galal the madman didn't murder people and hide the corpses. What's this curse that hounds the descendants of the saintly miracle worker?

Ashur never tired of spending his rest time in the open air where he used to graze the goats. Where blessed Ashur, giver of the covenant, had sought refuge. The ancestor he loved, whose word he trusted, whose good deeds and strength he venerated. Wasn't he supposed to resemble him? But where had it got him? His ancestor had performed miracles, while he sold cucumbers and dates on the street!

At night he still went to the monastery square, wrapped in darkness, guided by the stars. His gaze wandered over the dim shapes of the mulberry trees and the dark mass of the ancient wall. He sat down in al-Nagi's old spot and listened to the dancing rhythms. Didn't these men of God care about what happened to God's creatures? When would they open the gate or knock down
the walls? He wanted to ask them why Fayiz had committed his crimes. How much longer the alley would be poor and oppressed. Why egotists and criminals prospered, while the good and loving came to nothing. Why the harafish were in a deep sleep.

Meanwhile the air was filled with their chanting.

Did keh bar joz jur o setam nadasht

Beshkast ahd o zoghame ma hich gham nadasht
.

37
.

Halima said to herself that he always seemed distracted, absentminded. She wondered what he was thinking about. Was it possible to have a life of hard toil with no pleasant breeze to soothe it? “What's bothering you, Ashur?” she asked him tenderly.

He didn't answer.

“Wouldn't it be a good idea if we found you a wife to stop you being lonely?”

“We can barely feed ourselves,” he smiled.

“But is there something wrong?”

“Nothing,” he answered sincerely.

She had to believe him, but she wasn't convinced. There was a whole secret life inside him, and it made her jealous and afraid.

38
.

One night his secrets were weighing him down. It was spring and he had taken to sitting in the open courtyard of the tomb. The sky arched above, brilliant with a myriad of stars. He and Halima were eating a supper of curd cheese and cucumbers.

“I sometimes wonder what Diya's doing,” said Ashur.

“He'll have forgotten about us,” sighed Halima.

Ashur lapsed into silence and the only sounds were the smacking of his lips as he ate and the barking of dogs around the cemetery.

“I'm afraid he'll do what Fayiz did,” he went on.

“But he gave us an example we're not likely to forget.”

“People always do forget.”

“Is that what's troubling you?”

He bowed his head in the pale light of the crescent moon.

“Why did Fayiz turn to a life of crime?” he demanded. “Why did Galal go mad? Why does the clan chief hunt us down?”

“Don't we have enough to worry about?”

“It's a never-ending chain of worries!”

“It's the devil, God protect us.”

“Of course. But why doesn't he have any trouble tempting us?”

“He has no success with believers.”

He fell silent again. He had finished eating and began to smoke a pipe of tobacco steeped in molasses. The dogs barked more insistently, some of them almost howling.

“Do you want to know what I think, mother?” he said suddenly. “The devil conquers us by knowing our weak spots.”

“God protect us.”

“Our love of money and power are our two greatest weaknesses.”

“Perhaps they're the same thing,” murmured Halima.

“Perhaps. The power of money.”

“Even your ancestor succumbed to it.”

“My ancestor!”

She stared at him.

“What was wrong with him?” he asked.

“Wrong with him?”

“I mean why did he succumb?”

“It wasn't his fault.”

“Of course not,” he murmured hastily.

But privately he continued to wonder what Ashur had lacked, and what had thwarted the development of his ideals after his death, or after Shams al-Din's death. If wrong existed, right must exist too. It must be constantly renewable, and if it was possible to suffer lapses, it must also be possible to ensure that they didn't recur.

“Don't you have more than enough to worry about?” asked Halima again.

39
.

No. He didn't. He was dissatisfied, as might be expected of somebody who was addicted to spending an hour in the open country every day and an hour or more in the monastery square! In whose heart a torch blazed constantly. Somebody who was kept awake by kaleidoscopic dreams, who continued to think that Ashur al-Nagi was his only ancestor. In the sandy ground of the country he outlined a way. By the light of the stars in the monastery square he imagined it. In his wanderings and in his sleep, he secretly confided in it. Until it existed for him, as strong, solid, and impressive as the ancient wall.

40
.

He hung around for hours in the Darasa market. It was here that many of the harafish from the alley loitered, which was why he had previously avoided it and now frequented it. He passed in front of their little groups, singing his wares. Some of them recognized him at once.

“It's Ashur!”

“The killer's brother selling cucumbers!” a voice mocked.

Ashur went toward them with a cheerful expression on his generous features. He held out his hand, saying, “Are you going to refuse to shake it like the others?”

They crowded around to shake it warmly.

“To hell with them,” said one.

“You've always been good to us,” said another.

“How's your mother? She's a fine woman.”

“Seeing you, my wandering spirit has come back home,” murmured Ashur.

He spent an hour in their company, a happy hour of affectionate,
joyous conversation. From that time on he went regularly to the Darasa market.

41
.

Meeting the harafish had set his whole being on fire. His vital energies raced together and his heart pounded as if it would burst its walls. He couldn't sleep, he was so agitated by this upsurge of power inside him. He defied the unknown like Fayiz and Diya; but he took a different path, his sights set on more distant horizons. He stared it in the face, grasped it by the hand, rushed toward it unreservedly. As if he was bound by destiny to gamble and take risks, to pursue the impossible. He was harboring an amazing secret. In his sleep he had seen someone he believed was Ashur al-Nagi. Although the figure was smiling, it had asked him in a tone of obvious reproach, “Is it going to be me or you?”

It repeated the question twice.

“Me!” answered Ashur, as if he had suddenly realized what the words meant.

Still smiling, al-Nagi vanished.

When he woke up, Ashur wondered what al-Nagi had meant by this question, and what he had meant by his answer. He could find no clear explanation, but he was filled with inspiration and fearless optimism.

42
.

One day he questioned the harafish in the market. “What could restore our alley's fortunes?”

“The return of Ashur al-Nagi,” answered several voices.

“Can the dead come back to life?” he murmured, smiling.

“Of course,” someone replied with a laugh.

“When you're alive you're alive, and when you're dead you're dead,” he said firmly.

“We're alive but not living.”

“What haven't you got?”

“Bread.”

“Power, you mean,” said Ashur.

“Bread's easier to come by.”

“Not at all!”

“You're strong and powerfully built,” said a voice. “Do you want to become clan chief?”

“And be transformed like Wahid, Galal, and Samaha!” said another.

“Or be assassinated like Fath al-Bab!” said a third.

“Even if I became an honest, upright chief, what good would it do?”

“We'd live happily under your protection!” said one.

“You wouldn't be honest for long!” said another.

“Even if you were happy when I was there what about after I'd gone?” asked Ashur.

“It would be back to the bad old days.”

“We don't trust anyone. Not even you!”

“Wise words,” smiled Ashur.

They burst out laughing.

“But you have faith in yourselves!” went on Ashur.

“A lot of good that does us!”

“Can you keep a secret?” asked Ashur seriously.

“Just for you!”

“I had a strange dream. I saw you armed with clubs.”

They broke into gales of unrestrained laughter.

“He's definitely crazy,” said one of them, indicating Ashur. “That's why I like him.”

43
.

Somebody knocked on the door of the tomb room. Ashur and his mother were sitting together after supper, wrapped up in blankets to protect them from the biting winter cold. Ashur opened the door and saw a face he knew in the lamplight. “Diya! My brother!” he cried.

Halima jumped up and clasped him to her breast. A few
moments were lost in warm embraces and greetings, then they came to themselves and sat down on cushions, looking at one another. Diya was in a dark cloak, green leather slippers with turned-up toes, and a striped silk headcloth, looking the picture of health and happiness. Ashur's heart twitched apprehensively, and Halima shut out her suspicions with a smile and let her affections submerge them. Diya broke the brief silence. “What a long time it's been!” He laughed. “And yet not long!”

“You forgot all about us, Diya,” murmured Halima, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Life was harder than I could ever have imagined,” complained Diya in a tone which managed to convey his inner triumph.

It was time to talk of the present but Halima and Ashur recoiled from broaching the subject. Diya's appearance reminded them of someone else whose image they could not erase from their minds, and they were gripped by a secret anguish. Diya knew just what they were thinking. “At last the Almighty has taken us by the hand!” he said.

“Thank God,” muttered Halima, for the sake of saying something.

She looked at him inquiringly.

“I'm manager of the biggest hotel in Bulaq.” He turned to Ashur. “What do you think of that?” he inquired cheerfully.

“Wonderful,” said Ashur in a lifeless tone.

“I know what's going on in your head.”

“Can't you see why I'm worried?”

“But it happened in a very ordinary way. Completely different from our brother's fiasco.”

“I hope so.”

“I worked in the hotel as a servant, then I became a clerk because I knew how to read and write, then I got friendly with the owner's daughter.” He paused to give his words a chance to sink in, then continued. “I was afraid to ask her father for her hand, in case I lost everything. But he died. We married and I became manager of the hotel, and its virtual owner.”

“God grant you make a success of it,” murmured his mother.

He looked at Ashur. “Are you afraid I'm not telling the truth?”

“Oh, no,” said Ashur quickly.

“You can't get the disaster of Fayiz out of your mind.”

“I'll never be able to.”

“But I've taken a different course.”

“Thank God.”

“Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“As soon as I'd made my way in the world, I remembered my mother and brother,” said Diya proudly.

“God bless you,” said Halima.

“Because I never abandoned an old dream of mine.”

“An old dream?” queried Ashur.

“That we should go back to our alley, recover our old status, and be greeted respectfully by those who once spat in our faces.”

“Forget it,” said Ashur tersely.

“Really? What are you scared of? Money works miracles.”

“People stopped having real respect for us while we were still wealthy.”

“What do you mean—real respect?”

Should he divulge his own dream? But he couldn't trust him. He might be able to communicate with the harafish, but not with this frivolous snob. “The respect we lost a long time ago.”

Diya shrugged dismissively. “In any case, it's time you two gave up living with the dead!”

“No,” said Ashur resolutely.

“No! Are you refusing my offer of help?”

“Yes.”

“That's nothing short of crazy.”

“It's your wife's money. Nothing to do with us.”

“You're hurting me.”

“I'm sorry, Diya. Leave us be.”