The Harafish (9 page)

“They'll use your weakness to get at me, now they've failed to make me back down,” he shouted.

He made him take the clothes back to the shop and return the bonus. Shams al-Din realized that he was powerless in the face of his father's anger. He felt ashamed of himself and disillusioned with his mother who dared not defend him or take his side.

But it was love, not force, which bound Shams al-Din to his father as his pupil, confidant, and friend; he was saturated with his words, inspired by his piety, and shared his passion for the sacred songs and the stars. He drove his cart proudly, quelling the flashes of weakness which stirred in his depths every now and then.

In spite of their poverty they had been received with affection and esteem wherever they went. Would things change now? For here was his mother looking at the future with eyes full of apprehension!

13
.

In the vast wildness of the Mameluke Desert the men looked like a few scattered grains of sand. This was the territory of robbers and fugitives, home to jinns and reptiles, graveyard of countless anonymous bones. Ghassan approached, surrounded by his men, and stood face-to-face with Dahshan and his supporters. Eyes met under the burning sun, tortured by the fierce blaze of heat rising from
the sand. The surrounding emptiness looked on coldly, mockingly, without pity, promising the loser eternal ruin.

Shams al-Din came up quietly and chose a position equidistant between the two groups, thereby proclaiming his neutrality and, at the same time, his readiness to rally to the winner's flag. He raised his hand in greeting and cried in his loud, hoarse voice—the only trait he had inherited from Ashur—“The peace of God on the people of our alley.”

Lips dry with dogged anticipation muttered back, “The peace of God on the great man's son.”

It occurred to Shams al-Din that neither side had asked him to join them or sought his mother's blessing. On the cruel field of battle women and inexperienced youths were irrelevant.

Shaalan the One-Eyed came and stood beside him. Once a clan chief himself, in his old age he acted as arbitrator, impartial and reliable. He announced, “The contest between Ghassan and Dahshan will begin. Let every man present remember his duty.”

He gestured warningly and carried on, “Keep in your places, abide by the result. Going against it means disaster for all.”

Nobody spoke. The desert watched with its cold, hard, mocking stare. A raven croaked in the clear blue dome of the sky. Shaalan the One-Eyed said, “May the best man win. Everyone will owe him allegiance, including the loser.”

The sweat-stained faces acquiesced without protest and Shaalan turned to Ghassan: “Do you swear to submit if you are defeated?”

“I swear, as God is my witness,” said Ghassan.

“And you, Dahshan?”

“I swear, as God's my witness.”

“A touch is enough to decide the winner. Avoid violence at all costs. It only causes ill feeling.”

The circle opened out, leaving Ghassan and Dahshan alone in the ring: two sturdy bodies tensed and ready to spring, they brandished their sticks like magicians. Ghassan jumped forward and Dahshan attacked. Their sticks clashed, turning around each other, whirling with cunning grace. Each player struggled for a touch, blocked, parried, and ducked, their tension and determination
mounting as the fight reached its climax. The infernal heat of the sun fell on their heads in benediction.

With a sudden swift lunge, Ghassan caught Dahshan off his guard, struck home, and touched his collarbone. Wild with enthusiasm, his supporters cried, “Ghassan! Ghassan! God bless Ghassan!”

Dahshan slumped, panting, swallowing his disappointment. Ghassan held out his hand and said, “My brother!”

Dahshan shook it, muttering, “My chief!”

“God bless Ghassan! God bless Ghassan!” chanted the crowd.

Ghassan turned in a circle, elegantly, exultantly, as he addressed them. “Does anyone wish to object?” he demanded.

The crowd roared their allegiance. As the storm of support died down, a voice spoke: “I object, Ghassan.”

14
.

All eyes turned in amazement to Shams al-Din. He stood apart a little, tallish and slender, his handsome face raised in pride, his skin suffused with the sun's burning rays.

“You, Shams al-Din?” gasped Ghassan.

“Yes, me, Ghassan,” he answered firmly.

“Do you really want to be clan chief?”

“It's my duty and my fate.”

One-Eyed Shaalan said kindly, “Your father himself didn't prepare you for it.”

“I've learned a lot, and I know things other chiefs don't.”

“Goodness isn't enough by itself!”

Shams al-Din attempted a few moves with his father's club, every gesture full of elegance and charm.

“I can't harm you!” Ghassan shouted.

“Let the weapons do the talking!”

“You're just a lad, Shams al-Din!”

“I'm a man like my father.”

Ghassan raised his face to the burning sky and cried, “Forgive me, Ashur!”

Nobody felt happy at this turn of events. Lips curled in displeasure.
The desert appeared colder, harsher, more disparaging than ever.

Shams al-Din made the first move and the battle started. In its opening explosive moments a miracle occurred: Shams al-Din's weapon found its way to Ghassan's leg and scored a hit. Ghassan stopped fighting in disbelief. Apparently he had underestimated his opponent and was paying the price, or so thought many of the spectators. But the battle had scarcely begun. How could it end just like that? Ghassan, still incredulous, prepared to go on fighting. The crowd was silent. Shams al-Din held out his hand. “My brother,” he said.

Ghassan ignored him, anger leaping into his eyes.

“Your hand, Ghassan,” cautioned One-Eyed Shaalan sympathetically.

“He was just lucky,” shouted Ghassan.

“God wanted him to win.”

“The contest is decisive only when the contestants are equally matched,” persisted Ghassan, “but Shams al-Din is still a sapling, ready to crack. Or do you want to be easy meat, a toy in the hands of any powerful chief around?”

At this Shams al-Din threw down his club, stripped to his loincloth, and stood waiting, his slender body glistening in the shimmering air.

Ghassan smiled confidently and did the same. “I'll protect you from your evil urges,” he said.

Cautiously they approached one another until their bodies touched, then they clinched and grappled, each one using all his strength and will, until their muscles bulged and their veins stood out. Their feet sank into the sand. Each one was possessed by a huge, inflexible desire to crush the other until the last breath of life left his body. The crowd watched in stunned silence, waiting for the blood to flow. The seconds passed, molten in the furnace of the sands. The crowd held its breath and not a sound was heard. Ghassan's brows met in a furious scowl. He appeared to be challenging the impossible, resisting fate. Struggling like a drowning man. Fighting the unknown like a madman. Unleashing blind fury against creeping despair. And yet he weakened, despite his persistence
and pride and anger. He lost his footing, staggered, and, with a rasping intake of breath, began to sink. Shams al-Din showed him no mercy until his arms sagged, his legs buckled, and he collapsed on the ground.

Shams al-Din stood panting, bathed in sweat. The shocked silence prevailed, broken only when One-Eyed Shaalan handed him his clothes and cried, “Long live our young chief!”

Then the crowd roared out, “God bless him! God bless him!”

“Ashur al-Nagi has risen from the dead!” exclaimed Dahshan.

“His new name shall be Shams al-Din al-Nagi,” pronounced One-Eyed Shaalan.

The vast unchanging desert bore unimpassioned witness to his glory and might.

15
.

The alley was waiting for the victory parade. Many people had put their money on Ghassan and almost as many on Dahshan, but no one had thought of the nice young Shams al-Din. The initial feeling of shock which the news provoked quickly turned to absolute joy. The harafish danced in the street and said it meant that Ashur lived on.

“Has the age of miracles returned?” asked Mahmoud Qatayif with angry sarcasm.

Shams al-Din received a splendid welcome. Even Fulla trilled for joy although she was in mourning.

Sheikh Mahmoud heard the story of the contest from One-Eyed Shaalan and was secretly filled with gloom. “Does this mean the age of poverty and depression will continue?” he said to himself.

16
.

“I prepared myself for this,” confided Shams al-Din proudly to his mother.

“Even your father didn't believe it possible,” said Fulla wonderingly.

“It'll be hard for someone like me to succeed him.”

“Watch out for Ghassan. He's your enemy now. But you can win your men's hearts if you play your cards right!”

“I'm the people's only hope now. I can't disappoint them.”

“Moderation is chief of virtues,” she said provocatively.

“I can't disappoint them,” he repeated doggedly.

17
.

The days passed, pulsating with happiness. The people truly believed that Ashur al-Nagi lived on. Ghassan spent his evenings in the bar and when he was drunk he would sing:

If your luck turns

It's not enough to be smart
.

One night Shaalan rounded on him. “Haven't you had enough of that stupid song? You ought to get rid of the bitterness in your soul.”

“He's sold it to the devil,” teased Dahshan.

“You can't forgive me for beating you, Dahshan,” said Ghassan roughly.

“Go to hell! At least I stuck to the rules.”

“If you hadn't had it in for me, you'd never have accepted a boy as chief.”

“He was a worthy winner, wasn't he?” said Dahshan resentfully.

“Something tells me our new chief will be a good customer of mine,” interjected Abu Rasain.

Ghassan guffawed. “I'll shave my mustache off if that ever happens,” he said. “All we'll get from him is poverty.”

“This evening's going to turn out badly,” moaned One-Eyed Shaalan.

“You've had too much to drink, Shaalan,” said Ghassan scathingly. “It'll be just like any other evening. Like all those happy
evenings in the good old days when the best whore of the lot paraded around in front of the drunks in all her glory!”

Dahshan flung his calabash at him, hitting him full in the chest. “Bastard!” he roared in his face.

Ghassan stood up menacingly but Shaalan bounded toward him and said in a stern voice, “You're not wanted here anymore, Ghassan.”

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.