“Gabalawi!” bellowed Daabis in a voice like thunder, his head upraised. “Come and see what has become of us! You have left us to the mercy of ruthless people!”
His voice echoed so strongly that some of them thought their ancestor might actually hear it from his mansion.
Then Effendi spoke in a voice that shook with anger. “Get out. Get out now!”
“Let’s go,” said Hamdan unhappily.
He turned from where he stood and went to the gate. They all followed him in silence, even Daabis, though he raised his head once again and cried out with the same power, “Gabalawi!”
27
Effendi strode into his hall, pale with fury, to find his wife standing there glowering.
“That was something,” she said. “We haven’t heard the last of it either. It will be the talk of the alley, and if we ignore it we will have no peace.”
“Rabble—trash—and they want the estate!” sneered Effendi. “Since when can anyone know what his origins are, in an alley like a beehive?”
“Settle it once and for all. Arrange something with Zaqlut. Zaqlut gets his share of the estate income but does nothing in return—let him earn what he takes from us!”
Effendi stared at her for a long time, then asked, “And Gabal?”
“Gabal! He’s our foster son—like my very own son,” she reassured him. “Our house is all he knows of the world—he doesn’t know the Al Hamdan and they don’t know him. Even if they did consider him one of them, they’d plead his case to us. I’m not worried about him. He’ll come back from doing his rounds among the tenants and he’ll attend the meeting.”
Zaqlut came at the overseer’s invitation. He was of medium height, bulky but with a strong physique, a ruddy, ugly face and scabby wounds on his neck and chin. They sat close to one another.
“I’ve heard some bad news,” said Zaqlut.
“How quickly bad news gets around,” said Huda irritably.
Effendi eyed Zaqlut slyly. “It hurts your prestige just as much as it hurts ours.”
“It has been a long time since I’ve used my club or shed any blood,” said Zaqlut in his voice as deep as the bellow of a bull.
“How deluded those Al Hamdan are,” said Huda, smiling. “They’ve never had a strong man of their own, but even the vilest one of them thinks he’s the master of the alley.”
“Peddlers and beggars,” spat Zaqlut. “No strong man will ever come from that cowardly trash.”
“So what can we do, Zaqlut?” asked Effendi.
“I’ll step on them—crush them like cockroaches.”
Gabal, entering the hall, heard what Zaqlut said. His face was flushed after his rounds in the desert, and the vitality of youth enlivened his strong, slender body and his face with its frank features, especially his straight nose and large, intelligent eyes. He greeted those present politely and began to speak about the properties rented that day, but Lady Huda interrupted him.
“Sit down, Gabal, we’ve been waiting for you. There’s something very important going on.”
Gabal sat down, his eyes reflecting the gravity still visible in the lady’s.
“I see that you can guess what’s on our minds,” she said.
“Everyone is talking about it out there,” he said quietly.
The lady looked over at her husband and then shrieked, “Did you hear that? Everyone’s waiting to see what we’re going to do!”
Zaqlut’s features grew even uglier. “Just a little fire a handful of dirt can smother. I can’t wait to get started!”
“What do you say?” Huda asked Gabal.
“It’s none of my business, my lady.” He was looking at the floor to hide his anxiety.
“I want to know what you think!”
He thought a while, feeling Effendi’s stabbing gaze, and Zaqlut’s angry looks, then said, “My lady, I’m blessed in being your foster son, but I don’t know what to say. I’m only one of the children of Hamdan!”
“Why do you mention Hamdan when you have no father or mother or other family among them?” said Huda sharply.
Effendi made a brief sound of scorn, something like a laugh, but did not speak.
It was clear from Gabal’s face that he was in real pain, but he spoke. “My father and mother were from them. That’s simply the truth.”
“My son is disappointing me,” observed Huda.
“God forbid—even Muqattam Mountain could never budge my loyalty to you, but denying facts doesn’t change them.”
His patience exhausted, Effendi stood up and spoke to Zaqlut.
“Don’t waste your time listening to this.”
Zaqlut stood, smiling, and the lady spoke to him, looking aside at Gabal. “Don’t overdo it, dear Zaqlut. We want to discipline them, not destroy them.”
Zaqlut left the hall.
Effendi threw Gabal a look of rebuke. “So, Gabal, you’re one of the Al Hamdan?” he asked mockingly.
Gabal took refuge in silence until Huda rescued him.
“His heart is with us, but it hurt him too much to deny his family in front of Zaqlut.”
“They are miserable, my lady,” conceded Gabal, “even though they are the aristocrats of the alley, if you consider their origins.”
“There are no origins in that alley!” screeched Effendi.
“We are the children of Adham,” said Gabal seriously, “and our grandfather is still alive—may God prolong his life!”
“Who can prove that he’s his father’s son?” asked Effendi. “He can say that every so often if he likes, but it should not be used to steal what belongs to others.”
“We don’t wish them any ill, on condition that they don’t covet our wealth,” said Huda.
Effendi wanted to end the conversation. He said to Gabal, “Get back to your work, and don’t think of anything but that.”
Gabal left the hall for the estate office in the garden reception area. He needed to enter some rental deals in the ledger and review the final monthly accounts, but he was too depressed. It was strange, but the Al Hamdan did not love him. He knew it; he remembered how coolly he was welcomed in the Hamdan Coffeehouse the few times he called there. Even so, it saddened him, the harm that was in store for them. It saddened him even more, the provocative behavior that enraged him. He wanted to keep the danger away from them, but was worried about angering the household that had taken him in, adopted and raised him. How would it have been for him had Lady Huda’s affection not overtaken him? Twenty years ago the lady had seen a naked boy bathing in a ditch filled with rainwater; she took pleasure in watching him, and her heart—which barrenness had kept from enjoying the blessing of motherhood—warmed toward him. She sent someone to bring him, crying and afraid, in to her. She made inquiries about him and learned that he was an orphaned child cared for by a woman who sold chickens. The lady summoned the chicken seller and asked her to give the child up to her, and she welcomed the idea excitedly. And so Gabal grew up in the overseer’s house, and under its roof he was blessed with the happiest family life of anyone in the alley. They sent him to school, he learned to read and write, and when he came of age Effendi turned over the management of the estate to him. Wherever the estate had holdings the people called him “Your Excellency,” and respectful and admiring looks followed him wherever he went. Life seemed good, promising every wonderful thing, until the rebellion of the Al Hamdan. Gabal found that he was not one person, as he had imagined he was all his life; he was two people. One of them believed in loyalty to his mother and the other wondered bewilderedly, “What about the Al Hamdan?”
28
The rebec sounded to accompany the tale of Humam’s death at Qadri’s hand. All eyes turned toward Ridwan the poet with slightly uneasy attention. This was a night different from other nights, a night following a day of insurgency, and many of the Al Hamdan were wondering whether it would pass in peace. The alley was shrouded in darkness; even the stars were invisible behind the autumn clouds. There was no light other th
an what shone weakly from locked windows or the lamps on handcarts scattered through the alley. Corners echoed with the racket of boys who collected there like moths around the cart lamps, while Tamar Henna spread a piece of burlap in front of one of the Hamdan houses, singing:
At the gate of our alley
We have the finest coffee man.
Cats howled intermittently, rapt in sexual rivalries or quarreling over food supplies. The poet’s voice rose poignantly in his narration: “Adham cried in Quadri’s face, ‘Where is your brother Humam?’ ” At that moment, Zaqlut appeared in the circle of light drawn on the ground by the coffeehouse lantern. He appeared suddenly, like part of the darkness made light, glowering, menacing, and terrifying. Evil shone in his eyes as his grip tightened on his fearsome club, and a dreadful, stony stare from his eye sockets fixed on the coffeehouse and its customers as if they were mere insects. The poet’s words died in his mouth. Dulma and Itris sobered up instantly. Daabis and Ali Fawanis stopped whispering, and Abdoun stood still. Hamdan’s hand tensed over the hose of the water pipe. There was a silence like death.
A few hurried movements ensued: customers who were not of the Al Hamdan left quickly, and the local gangsters Qidra, Al-Laithy, Abu Sari, Barakat and Hammouda appeared and formed a wall behind Zaqlut. Word spread through the alley quickly, as if a house had collapsed. Windows were opened, children ran around, and in the grown-ups’ hearts worry warred with gloating.
Hamdan was the first to break the silence. He stood as if in welcome and spoke. “Welcome to Zaqlut, protector of our alley. Please come in, all of you.”
But Zaqlut ignored him as if he did not see or hear him. His eyes shone with cruelty, and he spoke harshly. “Who’s in charge in this neighborhood?”
Hamdan answered, though the question was not directed at him. “Qidra.”
Zaqlut turned to Qidra and asked mockingly, “Are you the protector of the Al Hamdan?”
A few steps brought Qidra’s short, compact body closer. His face was a picture of provocation. “I am their protector against everyone—except you, sir.”
Zaqlut smiled with a certain antagonism and said, “Was this alley of women the only territory you could find?” Then he shouted through the coffeehouse, “Women! Bastards! Don’t you know who’s in charge in this alley?”
“Zaqlut, sir, we have no problem with you,” said Hamdan, pale.
“Shut up, you stupid old man. Now you’re going to grovel for attacking your masters—the masters of all your people!”
“We didn’t attack anyone,” said Hamdan, sounding deeply worried, “we only brought a complaint to his excellency the overseer.”
“Do you hear what this son of a whore is saying?” shouted Zaqlut. “Hamdan, you trash, have you forgotten what your mother used to do? I swear, not one of you is going unharmed into this alley until you’ve said, as loudly as you can, ‘I am a woman’s woman.’ ”
Immediately he raised his club and slammed it down on the table so that cups, glasses, plates, spoons, boxes of coffee beans, tea and sugar, cinnamon, ginger and tiles flew all over. Abdoun jumped backward, bumped into a table and fell down with it. Abruptly Zaqlut aimed a blow at Hamdan’s face. Hamdan lost his balance and fell over to the side, smashing his water pipe. Again Zaqlut raised his club, shouting, “No sin will go unpunished, you sons of whores.”
Daabis grabbed a chair and threw it at the great lantern, smashing it. Just as blackness engulfed the place, Zaqlut hit the old woman behind the table. Tamar Henna shouted, and the women of the Al Hamdan echoed it from their windows and doorways; it was as if the whole alley had become the throat of a dog being pelted by stones. Enraged, Zaqlut landed blows in every direction, striking people, chairs and even the walls. There were confused waves of screams, cries for help and wails, and bodies flew in every direction and collided with one another.
“Everyone is confined to his house!” shouted Zaqlut in a voice like thunder.
There followed the sound of retreating steps as everyone rushed to obey the order, whether they were of the Al Hamdan or not. Al-Laithy brought a lantern, whose light revealed Zaqlut and the gangsters around him in an empty alley in which nothing could be heard but women’s shouts.
“Spare yourself the trouble, teacher of misfortunes,” Barakat flattered him. “We can discipline these cockroaches.”
“If you like,” added Abu Sari, “we will grind the Al Hamdan into dirt for you to trample on your horse.”
“If you order me to punish them,” said Qidra, the protector of the Hamdan, “you would be giving me my greatest wish—serving you, sir.”
“Good God, what an animal!” shrieked Tamar Henna from behind the door of a house.
“Tamar Henna,” Zaqlut shouted back, “I defy any man of the Al Hamdan to count the men you’ve fornicated with!”
Tamar Henna answered but her last words were muffled by a hand over her mouth that prevented her from going on: “God is our witness, the Al Hamdan are the true—”
Zaqlut spoke to the gansters loudly because he wanted the Al Hamdan to hear. “No man of the Al Hamdan leaves his house without a beating.”
“If you think you’re a man, come on out!” Qidra shouted menacingly down the alley.
“And the women, sir?” asked Hammouda.
“Zaqlut deals with men, not women,” was the sharp reply.
Day came, and no man of the Al Hamdan left his house. Each gangster sat before the coffeehouse in his territory, watching the street. Zaqlut passed through the alley every few hours, and the people outdid one another greeting, flattering and praising him with “A lion among men, protector man of our alley,” “Good for you—you turned those Al Hamdan men into women!” and “Praise God, who humbled the arrogant Al Hamdan with your strong arm, Zaqlut!” And no one voiced the slightest word of complaint.
29
Does our misery please you, Gabalawi? wondered Gabal as he lay on the ground under the rock where, the stories said, Qadri and Hind sought solitude and Humam was killed. He gazed into the dusk with eyes that no longer saw anything but ruined happiness. He was not the kind of person who likes seclusion because he has a great many problems, but recently he had felt an overpowering desire to be by himself. What was happening to the people of Hamdan convulsed his soul. Perhaps in this desert the voices that abused and tormented him would be stilled. Voices called, “Traitor to the Al Hamdan! Scum!” as he passed by, and voices from deep inside him cried, “A life lived at the expense of others will never be happy.” The Al Hamdan were his people; his mother and father had been born into them and were buried among them. They were oppressed—and by such obscene oppression!—and their property had been usurped. Who was their oppressor? The giver of his own happiness, the man whose wife had plucked him out of the mud and raised him up high, with the mansion family. Everything about the alley was run according to the law of terror, so it was not strange that its finest people should be imprisoned in their homes. Our alley has never known one day of justice or peace. This has been its fate ever since Adham and Umaima were expelled from the mansion—do you know that, Gabalawi? It seems that the injustice will grow darker and more painful for as long as you are silent. How long will you be silent, Gabalawi? The men are prisoners in their houses and the women are exposed to every insult in the alley. I endure the disgrace in silence. And yet, strange to say, the people of our alley laugh! How can they laugh? They celebrate winners, any winner, and cheer any strong man, no matter who he is, and bow down before bullies’ clubs—all this to conceal the terrible fear deep inside them. We eat humiliation like food in this alley. No one knows when it will be his turn for the club to come down on his head. He looked up at the sky and found it silent, serene and sleepy, framed by clouds, the last kite flapping away. No people were about, and the time had come for the insects to take over. Suddenly Gabal heard a coarse voice nearby, shouting, “Stop, you son of a whore.” He awoke from his reverie and stood up, trying to remember where he had heard that voice, then he hea
ded around Hind’s Rock to the south and saw a man running away in terror, and another man running after him, almost catching up. He looked more closely and saw that the runner was Daabis and the pursuer was Qidra, the Al Hamdan area gangster, and immediately he knew what was happening. He kept watching the chase, which was coming nearer, with an anxious heart. Before long Qidra caught up to Daabis and grabbed him by the shoulder, and both men stopped running, panting from exertion.
“How dare you leave your room, you snake?” shouted Qidra, laboring for breath. “You won’t get back there unharmed now.”
“Let me go, Qidra,” cried Daabis, protecting his head with his arms. “You run our alley—you’re supposed to defend us.”
Qidra shook him so hard that his turban flew off. “You son of a bitch,” he shouted, “you know that I defend you against any creature but not Zaqlut.”
Daabis’ gaze strayed over to where Gabal stood, and when he saw and recognized him, he shouted out, “Help me, Gabal, help me. You’re one of us more than you’re one of them!”
“No one will save you from me, you bastard,” Qidra threatened him furiously.
Gabal found himself moving toward them, until he stopped right beside them. “Be gentle with this man, Qidra,” he said quietly.
Qidra glared at him coldly and answered, “I know what I have to do.”
“Maybe he left his house for a good reason.”
“He left it because it was his predestined fate!” He tightened his grasp on his shoulder until Daabis moaned audibly.
“Be gentle with him,” said Gabal sharply. “Don’t you see that he’s older than you are, and weaker?”
Qidra released Daabis’ shoulder and hit him on the back of the head so hard that he bent over, then kicked him in the back with his knee. Daabis collapsed on his face, and in no time Qidra was kneeling on him, punching him again and again and asking hatefully, “Weren’t you listening to what Zaqlut said?”
Children of the Alley Page 11