The Seventh Heaven (8 page)

Anous (Raouf) had been his classmate at school. They had a natural sympathy for each other, and spent all their time playing together. A strong bond of affection was
forged between them. Nonetheless, life separated them despite their living in the same quarter. Anous was enrolled in primary school after Qur’an school, then in secondary school, before finally entering the Police Academy. Perhaps they sometimes met on the street, or in the home of Qadri the Butcher when Raouf was delivering dough or returning with loaves of bread. At such times they would each exchange a fleeting smile, or a greeting—from Anous’ side—that seemed a bit feeble. Raouf could tell that their childhood friendship was dwindling away and evaporating, and their two worlds were growing further and further apart. He felt more and more sharply the contradictions of life, and its miseries. He was annoyed with Anous, but he utterly loathed Qadri the Butcher and Rashad the Baker, and abhorred his own father. Indeed, the flame of life singed him, kindled by what he heard that the young people were saying in the coffeehouse— until Anous himself would sit with those same youths, expressing his views with passion. With this he appeared to be a strange young man, at odds with the house in which he dwelt, in rebellion against his infamous father.

For his part, Boss Qadri the Butcher watched Anous’s development with unease. This was a peculiarly peevish offspring, one that stirred fears; he even once called him “a bastard son.”

One day he asked him, “What do you say to the riffraff in the café, and what do they tell you?”

“We exchange our concerns, father,” he answered politely.

“They are your enemies,” objected Qadri.

“They are my friends,” Anous said, smiling.

“If you overstep your limits, you’ll find me another person, without any mercy whatsoever,” swore Boss Qadri.

Qadri told himself that soon his son would become a police officer. Then he would become mature and know his place in life. Next, he would marry—and his problem with him would end.

Anous did indeed graduate as an officer. He was appointed to their own quarter through his father’s influence and his courting of highly placed persons.

Time is what made Raouf and Anous turn out differently than expected. A current swept through the alley, or rather new currents did—both rebellious and even revolutionary. And so they burst out of the suffocating air at home, each one adopting a new personality. No one sensed the danger from Anous before he became a policeman. Yes, there had been alienating disturbances between himself and his father, yet Qadri had thought everything would change in his favor when his son was officially launched in his career.

As for Raouf, his employer, Rashad al-Dabash, soon grew angry with him. He slapped him on the face, shouting, “Look out for yourself—and don’t lead your pals down the wrong path!”

If it weren’t for his father Shakir al-Durzi’s rank as shaykh of the
hara,
then Raouf would have lost his job,
though Rashad complained to him about the boy. The shaykh was astounded at this new type of insubordination, and sought to tame him with a harsh beating. When he found him still stubborn, he resorted to calling on the officer.

“Effendim,”
Anous advised, “threaten him with the law—that is better than our having to arrest him tomorrow.”

Thus Raouf appeared before his old friend Anous. For a long time they traded just looks with each other, then memories they shared together, until their faces glowed with the warmth of their old camaraderie.

“How are you, Raouf?” Anous asked him, smiling.

“Miserable,” Raouf replied, “so far away from you.”

“You should have continued your education,” Anous told him.

“That was my father’s doing—and what’s done is done.”

“Look out for yourself,” Anous told him seriously. “The law has no mercy.”

“The Boss caused all this evil—and there’s no mercy in his heart.”

Lowering his voice, Anous repeated, “Watch out for yourself….”

After this, Anous sought to shake up the
hara’s
consciousness, and to make his father tremble. He had Shaykh Shakir al-Durzi transferred to another alley, putting a new, more trustworthy man, Badran Khalifa, in his place. This hit Boss Qadri the Butcher like a violent revolution, depriving him of the precious right hand that had shielded him from the law.

“How did this happen when you’re an officer in the station here?” he confronted his son.

“That protection is for you—and the people too.

“You’re my son—and my enemy, Anous.

“Know, father, that I’m your faithful son.

Each speaking their own language, mutual comprehension between the two became impossible, and black dust covered the house’s face.

A woman came to meet Anous in the station. When his eyes beheld her face, his breast was moved by a sweet new melody. Such a wonder, this serene beauty with her dark, almond-shaped eyes. It was as though her image was already engraved in his passion to awaken it anew. She was at least twenty years older than he was: her expression entwined serenity and sadness.

“I’ve come to request your protection,” she told him.

“What is your name?” asked Anous.

“Rashida Sulayman, schoolteacher,” she told him. “Recently, I was transferred to the New Era School in this quarter.”

That name—hadn’t it flitted before through the tangle of his memory?

“Whom do you fear?” he queried her, his eyes fixed on her face with infatuation.

“It’s ancient history,” replied Rashida. “I may be exposed to an attack on my life because of it.”

“Really?” he said raptly. “What’s the history? And who would the attacker be?”

“It’s an old legal issue in which I was found innocent— a case of self-defense,” she explained. “But the father of the person killed is a frightful man with many criminal supporters.”

The old story that he had heard repeatedly in his childhood assailed him like a sudden storm. Shaken, he struggled to control his battered nerves. Standing before him was the woman who had killed his brother, the first Anous. Had she beguiled him the way she had bewitched his brother before him?

“We ran away to Imbaba,” she continued her tale. “I trained to be a teacher in the provinces, until I was suddenly transferred to our old neighborhood.”

He fell silent, caught up in the vortex of his emotions. He had not asked her the name of the person she feared— but then she said, “The man is well-known to everyone here: Boss Qadri the Butcher.”

“Are you married, ma’am?” he queried, steadying himself with an enormous effort.

“I have never wed,” she told him.

“Why haven’t you explained your circumstances to the school administration in this district?”

“No one would pay any attention to me.”

“Where do you live?”

“At 15 al-Durri Street, Imbaba.”

“Stay calm,” he told her. “I will speak to the administration myself. And if it takes a while to get results, then I will see to your protection personally.”

“Thank you,” she said warmly. “Please don’t forget me!” No, he would not be able to forget her.

Anous found no difficulty in annulling her transfer. He went by himself to the house at 15 al-Durri Street in Imbaba. The time was late afternoon. The Nile seemed still, cool fires gliding along its surface. Rashida received him with surprise blended with pleasure and hope, then guided him into her small, well-furnished sitting room.

“Please excuse my stopping by,” he said, “but I wanted to put your mind at ease immediately. I was able to undo your move at work.”

“A thousand thanks to you,
effendim!”

She ordered coffee for him, thus offering him a chance to tarry, as he had hoped.

“Do you live with your mother?” he asked her.

“My mother passed away ten years ago,” she replied. “I have no one but an old woman who is my faithful housekeeper.”

What a shame that Rashida is a spinster, though she still retains her beauty.

“Would it disturb you to know that I am Anous Qadri, son of that same terrifying butcher?”

Rashida was shocked. Her brown face flushed, its expression changed completely—yet she said not a word.

“I have upset you,” he fretted.

“I’m just surprised,” she said tremblingly.

“Please don’t hate me,” he begged.

“You’re just a normal person,” she said shyly.

He continued sipping his coffee while drinking in glances he stole at Rashida. Then he laughed nervously, “I’m not frightening like my father!”

“I’m sure of that,” she said.

“Really?”

“That’s very clear—and the truth is, I’m innocent,” she declared.

“And I’m sure of that,” Anous affirmed. After a moment, he added, “But there is something that perplexes me.”

She looked at him questioningly.

“Why haven’t you married?” he asked.

She stared in the distance for a while, then answered, “I have refused more than one proposal.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because of your love for the other man?”

“But that has been forgotten, like everything else.”

“There must be a reason,” he pressed her.

“The loss of my virginity was no small matter,” she said. “Perhaps I have despaired of making anyone happy.”

“That’s a very regrettable thing,” he said.

“Maybe it was meant to be,” she said resignedly.

She’s still a ravishing woman!

On his way home, Anous felt he was floating through an ethereal atmosphere. He loathed the duty that took him away from the house at 15 al-Durri Street in Imbaba.

It’s true, I have fallen in love with Rashida.

Estrangement fell like a forbidding barrier between father and son. The mother was saddened to the point of death. The house became downcast, as oppressive as a rat’s nest. Should he seek a transfer to one of the provinces? And what about Imbaba? What would happen if his father knew the passions burning in his breast? An unexpected thought occurred to him: he had been born as a punishment for his father. If not, why had he declared a secret war upon him from his earliest awareness of his surroundings? What a father deserving of absolute rejection, a sad and regretful situation—especially as I love the man totally. Though beastly and crude to the outside world, he is mild and kind inside his own home. He cannot picture his own perversity, believing instead that he is only exercising his natural right—the right of the smart and the strong. His greed for money and power knows no limits. As accustomed to committing crime as to saying good morning, he is solicitous to his supporters, generous to the point of profligacy. But when it comes to the common laborers, whose money he steals and whose food he hoards, Qadri scorns them all—without mercy. One day Anous will detest him so much that he will even deny the man is his father. Even more calamitous than this, the Boss has stamped Anous’ mother with his character, for she worships his power. Every time he commits some outrage, she falls into raptures of adoration. Truly, he—Anous—dwells in the lion’s den, in the temple of might and sin.

As things became more and more complicated, provocative
situations emerged. He arrested his father’s supporters as they were pilfering the money of the bakery’s employees. No sooner had he locked them up—for the first time in the
hara’s
history—than a torrent of giddy joy exploded in the alley, stirring a volcano in the house of Boss Qadri the Butcher. No longer able to remain, Anous decided to go. His mother’s torso shook as she wept.

“He is the Devil himself,” she cried.

Anous kissed her forehead and left. He rented a small apartment in Imbaba, telling himself that putting an end to the activities of his father’s supporters would do the same to his malignant powers. Qadri would be incapable of doing any more harm, and the quarter would slip from his hellish grip. He appealed to God, if only he could arrest his father in the very act of perpetrating a crime directly. Yet it appears that Qadri had resolved to meet the challenge with a similar one before his whole edifice collapsed—for on the same night a battle broke out between his supporters and the bakery’s workers. During it, Raouf received a fatal wound. But before drawing his last breath, he managed to assassinate Boss Qadri the Butcher.

These were explosive events in rapid succession, shaking the
hara
to its very foundations, drowning it in blood— while dissipating the darkness that had engulfed it for so long.

The Butcher found himself in front of Abu, hearing him say, “Welcome, Qadri, to the First Heaven.”

Acquainting the arrival with the place himself, he noticed that Qadri was absent-minded, with a dazed, faraway gaze.

“It seems as though you have not yet cut your ties to the earth,” Abu pointed out to him.

“Something weighs heavily inside me,” Qadri replied.

“Be aware—you will now learn your destiny.”

“Yes, but I never imagined I would be killed by a mere boy like Raouf.”

“Your new memory has not awakened yet.”

Confusion showed in the furrows of Boss Qadri the Butcher’s face. Slowly, slowly, he began to remember, until he let out a deep sigh.

“Do you recall now who this boy Raouf is?” Abu asked, smiling.

“My son Anous killed me,” said Qadri painfully.

“Indeed,” said Abu. “And do you remember who you were before that?”

“Adolf Hitler!” answered Qadri.

“And before that?”

“A notorious highwayman in Afghanistan. I can’t even pronounce his name!”

“A long, black record,” Abu upbraided him. “Why do you resist all advancement and waste every opportunity granted to you? Your son is better than you—many others are better than you.”

“The lesson won’t be in vain this time!” Qadri pleaded contritely.

“And yet, even as you appear before me now, you still have not left your worldly instincts behind!” Abu cajoled him.

“Perhaps I’m still stoned,” said Qadri lamely.

“Your excuse is worse than the offense.”

“I hope I can be made a guide….”

“Do you have anything to say in favor of your behavior on earth?”