He asked the alleged “president” of the household his opinion of her with a polite, reserved look. The honorary head of the household, as they termed him, raised his head to the other man and gazed at him with nearsighted, inflamed, and diseased eyes. He turned toward him his misshapen, dust-colored face, which sun and sores had scorched and turned the color of the mud bricks used to build village houses, and put his hand to his fez, which he pushed back, revealing an ugly, scarred forehead. Then he said to the suitor warmly and vehemently, “No way! Never! Have no fear! Not bad at all! Rest assured! A piece of cake! This woman is as sound as a gold guinea—twenty-four carat! Look, sir. Have you observed me closely? The bride is my spitting image, a chip from the same block, because she’s my full sister, born immediately after me.”
The gentleman suitor was surprised and temporarily flustered. When he calmed down a little he began to look stealthily at Hanafi’s ugly face, trying to hide his distress, disgust, and distaste. Finally, he muttered in a kind of whisper to himself, “Impossible . . . no way!”
Hanafi heard him and quickly tried to reassure him, “Impossible how? It’s a sure thing, a fact!”
“Impossible!”
“Just don’t trouble yourself at all, sir, about that aspect. You, sir, have nothing to worry about! She resembles me perfectly, my guarantee. Nothing for you to worry about.”
The gentleman had scarcely succeeded in getting out of Hanafi’s house; nothing was ever heard of him again.
* * *
• • •
Muhsin repeated his words in a flattering and cajoling way. “It’s true. It was all Uncle Hanafi’s fault.”
Zanuba lowered her head and did not reply. She had to restrain herself from sighing. Muhsin was silent for a moment. Then he suddenly sat up as though remembering something. A smile, which he attempted to conceal, came to his lips. He tried to look earnest and said at once, “Auntie! Have you heard? Mustafa Bey downstairs is sick.”
Zanuba raised her head. This woman who was almost forty blushed slightly, although she pretended to be calm. Trying to make her voice sound normal, she asked, “Sick? Who told you?”
Muhsin, noticing the effect of this news while pretending not to, said, “This morning I ran into his servant on the stairs. He was carrying a bottle of Epsom salts.”
She fixed her eyes on him as though wanting to interrogate him and pump him for more information but gained control of herself right away. Then she lowered her eyes in embarrassment. She was silent for a long time. Muhsin began to survey her stealthily, with a merry, childish smile on his lips.
At last he pointed to the cards and asked mischievously, “Didn’t the cards tell you?” She was temporarily flustered and did not answer. Muhsin looked at her for a moment. Then he asked abruptly, “What are you thinking about?”
The woman shuddered and stammered anxiously, “I’m thinking about something else.”
Muhsin would not let her off the hook. “Something else? Like what, for example?”
His knowing tone embarrassed her, but she remained calm. At that moment her mind rescued her and her memory came to her aid. She found the presence of mind to reply in a reasonably relaxed voice, “I’ve been busy since this morning thinking about the neighbor’s handkerchief that disappeared the day before yesterday from the roof.” As soon as Zanuba said this, Muhsin’s face changed color, turning first red and then yellow. He bowed his head straightaway. Zanuba didn’t notice what had suddenly happened to Muhsin but seemed to feel she had discovered a topic that would rescue her from her plight. So she rattled on: “Saniya’s silk handkerchief! Do you think it’s true, Muhsin, that the wind blew it away?”
Muhsin did not reply; he wasn’t even able to raise his head.
Zanuba continued, “By the Pure Lady, that talk just doesn’t make sense to me. The wind blew it away? Does the wind make handkerchiefs fly off?”
Muhsin stammered, “Then what?”
She answered immediately, “No way! Do you take me for a fool? By your life, it was stolen!”
The boy looked at her fearfully and did not utter a word.
She continued, “By the dear Prophet, it has been stolen. Do you know who stole it?” When Muhsin didn’t respond, she went on, “The person who stole it . . . is Abduh!”
Muhsin suddenly raised his head with obvious astonishment and joy. “Uncle Abduh?”
She answered critically, “He’s the only bad character we’ve got.”
Muhsin bent his head and did not utter a word.
She declared forcefully, “By the Prophet, I’ll consult the astrologer tomorrow and find out.”
Muhsin raised his head. “Astrologer?” he muttered anxiously and fearfully.
She continued, “If it’s not that boy Abduh, I deserve to be beaten with a slipper.” She was quiet for a moment, but then a thought crossed her mind. She said suddenly, “Oh! What a pity! I forgot someone!”
Muhsin trembled a little while silently waiting for her verdict. She turned quickly toward him and asked in a satisfied tone, “Who do you think stole the handkerchief?”
The boy stirred anxiously, but she didn’t notice. She exclaimed, “Salim!”
Muhsin gasped and looked up at her. He mumbled, “Mr. Salim?”
She said, “That ne’er-do-well—God’s truth, have you forgotten his stories and adventures with women? Enough boasting and swaggering to turn our brains inside out! Fie on that one! Why does he tilt his fez, twist his mustache, and start playing that musical crock of his with the bellows? What? He thinks he looks swell? Outrageous! By the Prophet, Muhsin, then you favor him with one of your sweet songs. He thinks we have forgotten about him and his famous story that got him suspended by the government? The escapade with the Syrian lady from Port Said! My cousin Salim—how different from you! Is anyone as sneaky as him?”
Muhsin relaxed. The tense expression left his face, and he smiled innocently. Then he gently moved closer to Zanuba and asked in a voice marked by a slight quaver, “Auntie, did you see her on the roof today?”
Zanuba said, “Who? Saniya?”
The boy nodded his head affirmatively. He asked, attempting to speak naturally, “What did she say?”
Zanuba replied, without noticing his concern, “About the handkerchief? She laughed and said, ‘If it truly was stolen, the thief deserves the gallows.’”
Muhsin’s face turned as red as the carpet. He lowered his eyes and looked at the floor.
CHAPTER 2
It was time for supper, and the folks gathered in the apartment’s entry hall around a cheap white wooden table covered with an oilcloth. Time had drunk and eaten away on this table just as they had. Time perhaps had slept on it too, like the servant Mabruk, whose bed it became at night when he spread his pad, covers, and fleas on it. In the morning it changed back into a table, with a big dish of fuul midammis and loaves of bread for breakfast. For lunch or supper there was a trencher of farik or fuul nabit.
At this hour the familiar trencher was in place, and steam was rising from it, but everyone was abnormally silent and still. They hadn’t begun to eat yet and seemed to be waiting for someone. In fact, Hanafi’s place was empty, but was that why they were so quiet and despondent? Here was Zanuba placing her hand on her cheek as though sunk in distant dreams. Mabruk, for his part, sat as usual at the table’s end, where he was inhaling the aroma of the steam rising from the trencher. He was looking most impatiently at the empty place near him where Hanafi Effendi always sat. Yet, he did not dare, even so, break this pervasive silence. From time to time he would stare across the table at Muhsin’s new clothing with a dejected, servile look. Mabruk wasn’t an ordinary servant; he was a childhood friend of the family. In his youth he had played with Hanafi, Abduh, and Salim in their village of al-Dilinjat. For this reason he was the family’s honorary servant, just as Hanafi was the honorary president of the household. Muhs
in, in his place at the table, was busy too, stealing glances at Abduh and Salim as though he wanted to discover the secret of their strange silence. Abduh and Salim were without doubt the ones responsible for the gloom this evening. It was obvious that something unusual was troubling them and depriving the supper of the enjoyment, uproar, and good humor customary among the folks whenever they gathered around the table. Salim Effendi, the merry reveler, was unusually solemn. His head bowed, he was twisting his long mustache silently and thoughtfully. Abduh was rigid and sullen. His large nose was swollen and redder than usual, a sign of his intense anger and alarming nervous agitation this evening.
They continued to be silent, their eyes downcast, for some time. At last Abduh abruptly raised his head. He struck the table nervously and forcefully with his fist; all their heads shot up at that. He shouted, “Damn the father of anyone who waits!”
Startled by this cry, the servant Mabruk jumped to his feet at once and headed toward the bedroom. After casting a glance at Hanafi Effendi’s bed he returned to say, “Hanafi Effendi is stretched out in his bed. He is eating, excuse the expression, rice pudding with the angels.”
At that point those present heard a voice from the bedroom saying, “Rice pudding with the angels? I hope our Lord hears you, Mabruk Effendi! It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten rice pudding. Not since I started working and entrusted the household finances to Zanuba.”
Zanuba raised her head and said angrily, “Since when? Lie! You, Your Lordship, by the holy name, by the Prophet, won’t you rise and shake yourself? Don’t be sluggish! The food’s been cold since morning.”
From the bedroom Hanafi called, “You all think I’m sleeping? You’re retarded. I’ve got piles of work—piles!”
Then Abduh shouted restlessly, “No waiting! No more waiting!”
The honorary president replied from the bedroom, as if chanting a ballad, “Folks, be patient! Patience is good, though bitter. It won’t harm you. I just have a notebook and a copybook to grade. Sir, a notebook and a copybook! Sir, a notebook and a copybook! Sir, a copybook! Even if there are two—so what? It doesn’t matter.”
Abduh restrained his rage while Hanafi remained in the bedroom with its four beds, busily correcting his pupils’ copybooks. He was reciting and singing, “Sir, a notebook and a copybook! Sir, a notebook! Sir, a copybook! Oh, sir, a copybook. . . .”
Of those present, only Mabruk responded to the singing. He stood in the middle of the hall, looking toward the bedroom and the president’s bed. He began to clap his hands like a member of a claque, exclaiming, “God! God! ‘Sir, a copybook,’ one more time.”
Finally Abduh’s patience gave way. He screamed, “I swear by God Almighty, I won’t keep still. That’s it!”
He reached for his spoon nervously and raised it forcefully and violently. He thrust it into the trencher of bread crumbs in sprouted bean broth and then began to eat, paying no attention to anyone else.
At that, the others exchanged looks, as though Abduh’s action had stunned or displeased them. Nonetheless they didn’t dare say a word.
Zanuba, however, shortly remarked, in a voice that sounded as though she wanted to justify Abduh’s action, “Yes! So! The fault is with His Lordship, the great head of the house, who is always stretched out as lazy as a sultan’s three sleeping jesters. By the life of our dear Lord, the house is spoiled because of him.”
She turned to Abduh to flatter and cajole him in order to calm him down. She seemed to want to change the course of the conversation and the flow of their thoughts to another subject and commented, “Mr. Abduh, don’t get yourself all riled up. Don’t worry about the food and drink and his conduct!”
Then she suddenly changed her tone and asked, “I wonder if one of you found Saniya’s missing handkerchief.”
Abduh had begun to quiet down, secretly regretting his extreme vexation and anger, or at least letting these show. But as soon as he heard Zanuba and the words “Saniya’s handkerchief” in particular, his expression changed and became worse than before. Zanuba’s attempt to calm him with these words had been like calming a fire with oil.
Abduh bowed his head for a moment while his neck veins swelled and his nose turned red. When he could no longer contain himself, he burst out shouting, “You mean you don’t know who has the handkerchief? We all know who has it!”
Muhsin trembled and looked at the floor, but Abduh turned to his cousin Salim and gave a significant, hostile nod of accusation toward him. He continued, “If we were fools, he could put it over on us. But—praise God—we aren’t. He can tell you where the handkerchief is!”
He pointed straight at Salim, who was twisting his mustache deliberately and now asked frigidly, “What are you saying, sir?”
Abduh replied in a dry, caustic tone, “There’s no need for talk. We all know.”
With equal coldness, Salim asked, “Know what?”
Abduh didn’t respond and instead turned his face away. Salim shook his head in amazement and said, “Bravo to you! You steal it and accuse someone else? But that’s how clever young people are today.”
Abduh turned forcefully and violently and shouted at him, “If I had a record of previous offenses in such matters, it might be true.”
Salim was a little taken aback and muttered, “Previous offenses?”
Abduh continued insidiously, “If I were a captain, and they had suspended me from my job because of a certain Syrian woman . . .”
Salim steeled himself, raised his head forcefully and proudly, and asked, “Meaning what?”
Even so, he recognized that he had lost the support of his audience. That incident, which they kept bringing up, indicted him in advance, without any need for evidence. They all knew he was a police officer who had been suspended from work for the past six months, charged with abusing his authority. He had been accused in Port Said of flirting with a Syrian woman who resided in a house opposite his police station. Had the matter been limited to flirting, posturing, sending signals, greetings, and smiles, and to twisting his mustache and wriggling his eyebrows at that fetching woman whenever she appeared at her window, that would not have justified his suspension. But Salim Effendi went further, wishing to approach the beautiful creature. For a long time he sought for a way, and finally Satan guided him. One summer afternoon, when it was very hot and emotions and bodies were aflame, Salim Effendi, the police deputy, in his official uniform—its brass buttons and the three stars on the shoulder shining in the glaring sunlight—rose quickly and proceeded to the pretty woman’s building. He went up to her apartment and knocked on the door, saying, “Open up, ma’am. Don’t be afraid. I’m the police chief.”
“Why? What’s the matter?”
“Just let me in for a bit.”
“For what reason?”
“For what reason? Glory to God, what a nature you’ve got. In order for me to search. I’ve got to search your flat. Won’t you let me search?”
Thus he had affirmed falsely and deceptively that he wished to search her apartment. The trick was discovered, the news spread, and it was a scandal. He was suspended for a year.
All this flashed through Salim’s head like lightning. So he was silent and didn’t offer any rebuttal. Abduh observed this and said in the tone of an enraged assailant seeking revenge, “Right! It’s better for you to say nothing. The matter is as clear as the sun.”
Salim raised his head and asked coldly, “What do you mean?”
Attempting to appear calm, Abduh said, “There’s no need. We know everything!”
Salim straightened up and said sharply and earnestly, “Listen then. Enough! We’re not gulled by your con job. You think you’re being clever. No, shame on you! If you actually were clever, you’d confess and not deny it. Nevertheless, this much is clear—I’d just rather not have to speak. If you don’t believe me, I’m ready to prove my words with the others present
as my witnesses.”
Abduh interrupted him: “Prove your words?”
Salim replied immediately, “Certainly. Want me to prove it to you? Just let me keep my eyes on you while I search your clothes and belongings!”
At that Abduh released a loud, sarcastic laugh and asked, “What did you say? Search! God’s will be done! Sir, aren’t you still forbidden to conduct searches?”
The others followed this debate in total silence, young Muhsin the most intently of all. As he listened attentively, fear and anxiety took turns racking his heart. Yet he had reason to be quiet and calm—who would accuse or suspect a boy of fifteen?
While they were thus engaged, Hanafi suddenly appeared at the doorway leading from the bedroom to the hall and began to stare nearsightedly at them. After a moment he asked, “What’s up? Why are you so rowdy tonight? Were you drenched in afreet water? Fine! Here I am. I’ve arrived. I’m here.”
No one answered him. Only Zanuba reacted, by raising her eyes and glancing at him indifferently. Then she looked away and went back to her previous thoughts. The honorary president of the family advanced toward the table as he said, “I mean, I don’t see anything to eat or drink! Where’s the supper you were talking about? We heard there was a supper. Seems that was a rumor!”
Zanuba raised her head and pointed to the trencher listlessly. “Don’t you see this?”
Hanafi adjusted his spectacles and directed his gaze at the trencher and its contents. Then he exclaimed, “Fuul nabit? May Umm Hashim come to our aid!”
Zanuba didn’t look at him but rose at once and set off to the kitchen, saying, “There’s this other dish too.” No sooner had Zanuba departed than a motionless silence returned. Hanafi sat down at his empty place near the servant Mabruk.
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