Resting his forehead against the cool metal, Ali offered a prayer to the great saint and to her great-great-great-grandfather, the Prophet Muhammad. He prayed to the one true God, who had so many names—Allah, Deus, Elohim—but could not be divided.
“Ali.”
In the midst of his prayers, Ali heard the sound of his own name and, looking back over his shoulder, he saw a young woman standing at the entrance to the shrine. She was unremarkable except that she looked almost exactly like his cousin Fawziyah. Thinking that this young woman might actually be his cousin, Ali stood and tried to make his way back through the crowd. When he arrived at the entrance, she was gone.
It was a frivolous thing to have done, interrupting his prayers in order to chase after this young woman. As he collected his sandals and followed along with the stream of supplicants leaving the mosque, Ali upbraided himself. He had lost his one chance to ask the great saint for guidance. And for what? For nothing but a silly whim. How could he ever hope to find a wife if he couldn’t even finish a prayer? Trembling with frustration, Ali sat down under the shade of a rich man’s tomb and let his head fall in his hands. When he was finished scolding himself for this particular foolishness, he moved on to a more familiar set of recriminations. He was a liar and a cheat. He had betrayed the ones who trusted him most and squandered what good fortune he had stumbled into. He didn’t deserve to be the watchman of Ibn Ezra and he certainly didn’t deserve a wife.
Ali raised his head and ran a thumb down the ladder of scars that marked the underside of his arm. As he did, a strange thought occurred to him. It seemed foolish at first, but the more he considered the idea, the more sense it made. On further reflection, his only surprise was that he hadn’t thought of it before. It was an elegant resolution to a seemingly unsolvable problem. And was it not possible, he thought, that this idea was, quite literally, the answer to his prayers, that the image of the young woman at the entrance to the mosque had been Sayyida Nafisa’s hand guiding his thoughts? In any case, he knew what he was going to do.
Ali walked for much of the afternoon and when he arrived at Bab Zuwayla, the sun was even with the top of the gate. Nodding to the guard, he continued along the wide stone street that ran through his old neighborhood. He took a left at the butcher’s, a right at the mosque, and there he was. The doorway to Uncle Rashid’s house was smaller than he remembered. Its whitewash was faded and the front step was littered with spent sunflower seeds. Glancing up at a pigeon cooing in the eaves above, Ali swallowed back the sour taste of apprehension and knocked.
“Who is it?”
“Uncle Rashid, it’s me. Your nephew, Ali.”
“Ali,” his uncle sang. Then he shouted into the back room. “Ali the Sheikh has decided to pay us a visit.”
“A fine day,” Ali said as he stepped into the main room.
“Indeed it is,” his uncle replied, making fun of Ali’s formal tone.
Ali hesitated, not sure whether it was better to deliver his request standing or sitting.
“Come,” his uncle commanded. “Sit down. You need me to tell you everything?”
He sat on one of the cushions near the kitchen and looked around the room. The floor was swept clean of shells, but its walls still smelled of palm wine and old fava beans. Just a few moments in his former home and Ali was beginning to question the wisdom of his decision. He knew he was acting rashly, but this was the only way for him to keep his job, his house, and the life to which he had become accustomed. Moreover, the plan would allow him to deliver his cousin into a better life.
“Uncle Rashid,” Ali said finally, “I have come here to ask you a question.”
“Then ask.”
“I have come,” he continued, “to ask for the hand of my cousin Fawziyah.”
The moment he said her name, Fawziyah came out of the kitchen with a tray of coffee.
“Did you hear that?” her father asked, grinning a brown-speckled handful of teeth. “You and Ali are going to be married.”
She flushed and looked down at her feet to hide the size of her smile. Then she ran back into the kitchen to tell her mother.
“You have made her very happy,” Uncle Rashid said. “We were beginning to lose faith in the power of our prayers.”
It was, Ali realized, exactly what they had all been waiting for. It wasn’t a foolish idea at all. Uncle Rashid raised a glass and together they drank, to grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and so on down the line.
* * *
—
According to the Prophet Muhammad, a married man has fulfilled half of his religion. The remaining half is satisfied with fear of God. And indeed, when Ali woke up the next afternoon, he felt as if he were starting over again in a new life. His feet were sore and his neck had been burnt by the sun, but even these discomforts felt like confirmation of a great good fortune. After a small meal, he washed himself, then put on his best galabiya and walked directly to Ephraim ibn Shemarya’s fabric shop. As he approached, conversation stopped and all the men turned to look at him.
“Where have you been?” Ephraim asked.
Ali looked around the circle and, seeing so many of the men who had judged him, he forgot for a moment what it was he had come to say. He opened his mouth and blinked.
“What is it?” Doctor Mevorakh asked. “You look unwell.”
“I have some news,” Ali said finally. Not sure how best to approach the subject, he jumped right in. “Yesterday I was engaged, to my cousin Fawziyah. We will be married in three days at a mosque near Bab Zuwayla.”
“Congratulations,” Ephraim said and, after a brief pause, he rose from his seat to shake Ali’s hand. “I wish you the best.”
The other men in the circle all followed suit. One by one, they stood and shook Ali’s hand, each offering his own personal good wishes.
“Two engagements in one week,” Doctor Mevorakh remarked, and the rest of the men fell silent.
“Two engagements?” Ali asked, trying not to seem too curious.
“We have been doubly blessed this week,” Ibn Kammuna explained after exchanging a glance with Ephraim ibn Shemarya. “Two days ago, my eldest son was betrothed to Ephraim’s sister.”
Ali swallowed and a twinge of pain shot up his arm. Staring at the embroidered hem of Ibn Kammuna’s galabiya, he felt the men in the circle watching him. He knew what he needed to say. But, when he imagined his beloved on her wedding night, reclining on a bedroll in the private chambers of Ibn Kammuna’s eldest son, the word stuck in his throat like an unchewed piece of meat. It took a great feat of will for him to force it out.
“Congratulations,” he said. Then he shook the hand of everyone assembled, just as they had shaken his.
“A thousand congratulations to both the couples,” al-Zikri said, and the rest of the group responded in kind.
“A thousand congratulations.”
Ephraim offered Ali a glass of tea and he accepted, if only because his throat was so dry. He sat in his usual seat by the entrance to the shop and, as he sipped the sweet dark tea, he listened to the men discuss the question of whether a particular fish might permissibly be eaten. No one said anything reproachful and no one looked at him unkindly. Still, Ali felt something was not right. The men all seemed to be aware of his presence, noticing him in a way they had never noticed him before.
“May I ask a question?” Ali inquired in a lull between topics. He hadn’t intended to say anything, but once he spoke he couldn’t go back.
“Of course,” Doctor Mevorakh said. “What’s on your mind?”
Ali took a small sip of tea, then set the glass aside and asked the question that had been troubling him for some time.
“Why did you forgive me?”
The men offered a number of sensible explanations, repeating many of the same reasons they had cited previously: that their tradition taught them to be mer
ciful, that they were acting in the model of Abraham, but none of these answers were particularly satisfying.
“Perhaps,” Ephraim ibn Shemarya said finally, “I might offer a story.”
“The two brothers?” al-Zikri asked.
“The two brothers,” Ephraim affirmed and, as the rest of the men settled into their seats, he began.
“There were once two brothers, two brothers as close as brothers could be. They studied together, they ate their meals together, and, when the time came for them to choose a trade, they decided to go into business together. For many years they were very successful. Then one evening the younger brother, Noah, was going through the accounts and found a troubling inconsistency. The next morning, he confronted his brother Jacob, who admitted to stealing the money. Noah was furious, and when Jacob begged for forgiveness he refused. Eventually, it was decided that Jacob would leave the village while Noah continued their business alone.
“In the years that followed Noah had many difficulties, in business and in life. He never married and he lost nearly all his money in a series of shipwrecks. Meanwhile, his brother Jacob built a thriving business, married, and had three sons. This bothered Noah more than any of his own misfortunes. Why should he struggle while his dishonest brother was blessed? The village rabbi said it was God’s will. Unsatisfied with this answer, Noah went to the rabbi of a town nearby, who told him that God works in strange ways. Noah was unsatisfied with this answer as well. And so, he decided to wander the earth until he found an answer that satisfied him.
“Noah wandered for years and years, asking the same question of everyone he met. Eventually he came to a distant kingdom, many months’ journey from the village of his birth. When he arrived in the capital he asked to speak with the wisest man in the city and was shown to the deathbed of an old kabbalist. Noah told his story to the old kabbalist, and when he came to the end he asked the same question he always asked. Why should he struggle while his dishonest brother was fortunate? The kabbalist was quick to answer, as if he had been considering this same question for some time.
“ ‘When God first created the universe,’ he said, ‘it was a universe built on the idea of infinite justice. Each act of dishonesty or violence was accorded an equal punishment. A man stole his neighbor’s goat, and his own livestock were stricken with illness. A woman beat her child, and her stew was spoiled. In a short time, however, this universe collapsed under the weight of so much justice. So, when God set out to create the universe a second time, it was built on the idea of infinite loving-kindness. In this universe, each act of dishonesty or violence was accorded equal forgiveness.
“ ‘Does this answer your question?’ the old kabbalist asked, and Noah burst into tears.
“ ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘If only I had the chance to forgive my brother.’
“It was then that the old kabbalist revealed himself.
“ ‘You still can,’ he said and, with a smile, he extended his hand. ‘Do you not recognize me?’
“At this, the two men embraced and they died in each other’s arms.”
When he finished telling the story, Ephraim’s eyes shone with a brief smile and he poured himself another glass of tea.
“Wonderful,” al-Zikri said, then the men all turned toward Ali.
“I think I understand,” he said, though he wasn’t entirely sure he did.
It was a story about the importance of forgiveness, but at the same time, the ending would suggest that there was, indeed, some justice in the world. Why else would Noah be given the chance to forgive his brother? If nothing else, the story seemed to confirm the wisdom of the second rabbi, the one who said that God works in strange ways.
“Think on it,” Ibn Kammuna offered, and Ali said he would.
* * *
—
Ali tried his best to puzzle out an understanding of Ephraim’s story. But for the next three days, his thoughts were consumed with the more immediate concern of paying for his impending nuptials. Weddings are expensive, no matter their size, and, since Uncle Rashid had no money or job, Ali had to pay for the entire celebration himself. In addition to the cost of the musicians, alms for the poor, and the suggested donation to the mosque, there were Fawziyah’s wedding garments, her henna, and her makeup. Ali bought himself a new outfit as well as new clothes for his aunt and uncle. On top of all this, he paid for the majority of the clothing, bedding, and jewelry in his cousin’s trousseau. Ali had asked al-Zikri for an advance against the following month’s salary, but even that was not enough. The day before the wedding, Aunt Fatimah convinced him to go back to al-Zikri and request a further advance, to pay for the silver comb that she insisted was a necessary part of any respectable trousseau. He was on his way out the door when Fawziyah spoke up.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I already have a comb.”
Ali looked at his cousin, framed in the doorway of the kitchen, and he knew then that he had made the right decision. Fawziyah was not a delicate beauty, not the type to inspire poetry or a racing heart, but there was a certain charm in her smile, in the quiet confidence she brought to all her pursuits; and, in the past few months, she had grown into herself as a woman.
When Ali saw his bride the next day in her wedding garments—hands hennaed, hair dyed with saffron, eyes brushed with kohl, and cheeks glowing with the happiness of their future—he was stunned. He could not imagine a more beautiful woman. With a few words from the Imam, the bride and bridegroom placed their hands on the Koran and together recited its first surah. As he spoke them, Ali saw the words on the page spring into being. In the name of God, the Beneficent, the Merciful…Master of the Day of Judgment…Show us the straight path. And so they were married. After the ceremony, Ali and Fawziyah, her parents, and a few people from the neighborhood gathered in the courtyard of the mosque. They listened to a recitation from the Koran, and alms were distributed to the poor. No one from Ibn Ezra came to the wedding, which was understandable. Ali had not expected them. He had not even properly invited anyone.
After the reception, they loaded Fawziyah’s trousseau onto a donkey cart and set off together for their new home. Riding along the road to Fustat, with his bride on his arm and the late-autumn sun warming his face, Ali thought about those first words of the first surah of the Holy Koran. In the name of God, the Beneficent, the Merciful. These divine attributes, he thought, these names of God, they were the qualities we should work to foster in ourselves. For in our generosity, love, and forgiveness we reflected the Generous, the Loving, the Forgiving, like a bit of iron warmed by the sun.
Ali was turning this thought over in his head, considering how it might be related to the story of the two brothers, when the cart pulled up to the gates of the synagogue. They were greeted there by a crowd of children.
“Hooray for Ali!” they shouted. “Hooray for al-Raqb!”
The bride and bridegroom were smiling down at the children when the gates of the synagogue opened and they saw the courtyard was set for a great feast. Everyone was there—the entire judicial council, all the men from outside Ephraim ibn Shemarya’s fabric shop, and a number of people Ali did not recognize—all dressed in their finest clothing.
As Doctor Mevorakh’s wife helped Fawziyah down from the donkey cart and led her over to the women’s side, Ali understood that he and his new wife were the guests of honor. Before he could speak, he was carried off to the head of a table piled high with food, and the celebration began. It was a great feast, overflowing with wine and meat and pastries, and all of it to celebrate the marriage of a poor orphan, the watchman of the Ibn Ezra Synagogue.
Opening a jar of palm wine, al-Zikri laid a hand on Ali’s shoulder.
“I knew I was right,” he said and his eyes shone with a glint of happiness. “If this were the wedding of my own son, I couldn’t be prouder.”
“You are a good boy,” Shemarya
the Pious agreed, “and you will be an even better man.”
Toward the end of the festivities, after he had eaten many times his fill of roast lamb and pistachio baklava, after a few too many glasses of mint tea, Ali thought for a moment that he saw the figure of his former beloved standing in the corner of the courtyard, in the very place where he had first noticed her. He felt a wave of desire break over him, spreading out from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his fingers. Even on his wedding night, he could not escape it. There was still that tiny part of him that wanted to be with her. For love never dies; it is only diverted. Ali knew this and yet, at the same time, he knew he had made the right decision. He loved Fawziyah and he was glad to be able to share his good fortune with her.
When the feast ended, when the music stopped, when everyone had gone home and the first blush of the next day played on the horizon, Ali led his bride into her new home. Following her gaze around the room, from the wall hangings and floor coverings to the tidy little kitchen, he felt the pride of a man who has provided for his wife more than she could ever have hoped to attain. When she noticed his kittens, sleeping in the corner of the room, Fawziyah clucked her tongue and crossed the room toward them. For a moment, Ali worried that she might ask for them to be put out of the house, but when he saw the tender way she bent down and scratched between their ears, he knew that she would love them as much as he did.
That next spring, Ali and Fawziyah were blessed with their first child. They named her Nafisa, after the great saint whose wisdom had brought them together. The following year, they were blessed with a son, Hassan, who was followed by Hussein and then Zaynab. Their house was full, their children healthy, and Ali found a joy in his family such as he could never have imagined.
Thus the generations passed from one to the next. Old men died and young men grew old. Shemarya the Pious passed away in the company of his beloved grandchildren; Ibn Kammuna’s son joined his father on the judicial council. The Ezra Scroll stayed sheltered in its dark closet. The descendants of Ali’s kittens filled the courtyard with gray. And Hasdi il-Sephardi passed his days in exile. Over time, Ali took on the name of his position, al-Raqb, the watcher, and he continued in the role until he was nearly fifty years old. At that point the leaders of Ibn Ezra decided to pass his responsibilities to Ali’s son Hassan, who in turn passed the watch to his son, Ali. And so the al-Raqb line continued through the centuries, through famine and plague, fire and flood, civil war and occupation, demolition and deportation, through riot, assassination, and the violent suppression of dissent. The watch continued through all this, from father to son, father to son, a single chain stretched tight over a thousand springs and a thousand new years.
The Last Watchman of Old Cairo Page 19