Children of the Alley

by Naguib Mahfouz

  “They all wonder where your place is,” laughed the man from Rifaa. “They are expecting trouble from you, but there are many who hope you win.” He looked around him, at the huts and the people, and said, sounding impressed, “All of them are with you!”

  “Khurda has brought some important news,” said Sadeq.

  Qassem looked at him quizzically.

  “Today Sawaris is getting married for the fifth time,” said Khurda earnestly. “His wedding procession will be tonight.”

  “This kind of chance at getting him will never happen again,” said Hassan enthusiastically.

  All the men grew excited.

  “We’ll attack the alley someday, and in the meantime, every gangster we can eliminate will help that attack to go more easily, and the outcome will be more guaranteed,” said Sadeq.

  Qassem thought this over before speaking. “We’ll attack the procession, the way the gangsters do, but always remember that we’re attacking it to destroy gang rule.”

  Shortly before midnight, the men gathered on the mountainside, and stole down, one at a time, behind Qassem, clubs in hand. The sky was clear, with the full moon high and spreading its dreamy light everywhere. They came out into the desert and headed north, behind Muqattam Marketplace, then marched opposite the mountain so as not to stray from the road. As they neared Hind’s Rock, they were approached by the figure of a man who had been posted there to spy for them.

  “The procession will go toward Hind’s Rock,” he told Qassem.

  “But our processions usually go to Gamaliya,” said Qassem, surprised.

  “Maybe they’re staying away from the areas they think might be close to your base!” said Khurda.

  Qassem thought quickly. “Sadeq and some men will go into Bab al-Futuh. Agrama and a few others will go to the desert of Bab al-Nasr. When I call you to attack, attack.”

  The men broke up into groups, and before they set off, he said, “Concentrate the fight on Sawaris and his followers. The rest will be your brothers tomorrow.”

  Each group went on its way. Qassem, Hassan and their men hurried north, opposite the mountain, then turned left into the graveyard road until they were hidden behind the gate.

  “The procession will gather at the al-Falaki Coffeehouse,” said Hassan.

  “We have to attack it before it reaches the coffeehouse, so that we don’t attack people we have nothing to do with.”

  They continued to wait in the dark, their nerves taut.

  “How well I remember Shaaban’s murder,” said Hassan abruptly.

  “The gangsters’ victims can’t be counted,” said Qassem.

  Sadeq whistled, and Agrama answered, and their determination was strengthened.

  “If Sawaris is killed, the people of the neighborhood will hurry to join us,” said Hassan.

  “And if the others come to get us, we’ll slaughter them at the passage.”

  These dreams were like the moonlight. It would be less than an hour before their victory was decisive, or their hopes would evaporate along with the souls from their slain bodies. He imagined that he could see Qandil’s silhouette, and hear Qamar’s voice. It was as though an eternity had passed since his shepherding days. His fingers closed over his club and he said to himself, We cannot be defeated.

  He heard Hassan say something. “Don’t you hear it?”

  He listened more closely, and heard the echoes of music. “Get ready—the procession is coming,” he said.

  The voices came nearer and became more distinct, then came the horns and drums, the cries and the cheers. Then, by the light of torches, the procession appeared as it moved near, and the accursed Sawaris, surrounded by dancers juggling clubs.

  “Should I whistle to Agrama?” Hassan asked.

  “When the front of the procession reaches the garlic market,” said Qassem steadily.

  The procession continued its progress, and the dancing and juggling intensified. One dancer, caught up in the rapture of the dance, leaped into the air and spun around in front of the procession, making an undulant circle with graceful speed. He twirled a spinning club like a fan with his raised hand, and advanced one step after each turn, until he had passed the garlic market. The procession behind him moved very slowly, until the front of it reached the garlic market, and Hassan whistled three times. Agrama and his men poured out of al-Tamayin Lane and fell on the rear of the procession, their clubs leading the way. Confusion scattered its ranks, and there were screams of rage and fear. Hassan whistled three more times, and Sadeq and his men plunged out of Samakin Road onto the middle of the procession from the other side, before it had recovered from the first attack. Qassem and his men immediately charged through the gate as one man, to attack the front of the procession. Sawaris and his men recovered from the surprise of the trap, lifted their clubs and joined the dogged fighting. Many of the noncombatants fled, taking refuge in the nearby lanes and alleys as the thwacking of the clubs grew more frenzied, blood streamed from heads and faces, lanterns were smashed and flowers were scattered and trampled. Voices wailed from windows, and the coffeehouses closed their doors. Sawaris fought hard and nimbly, swinging his club like a madman in every direction, and the fighting intensified as their hatred grew as black as the night. Sawaris suddenly found himself face to face with Sadeq.

  “You son of a dirty bitch!” he shouted, and aimed a blow at him that struck his face. Sadeq convulsed and staggered, and Sawaris lifted his club and brought it down again; Sadeq took the blow on the club gripped in his hand, but fell to his knees from the force of the stroke. Sawaris was about to deal him the third and final blow, but saw Hassan bearing down on him like a beast to save his friend. He turned toward him, brimming with anger.

  “You too, Bin Zachary, son of a whore!” he shouted. He loosed a terrible blow which would have killed Hassan had he not dodged it by jumping aside. As he jumped, he caught Sawaris with the end of his club, wounding him on the neck, and this blow prevented Sawaris from striking again for a few moments. Hassan regained his balance and swung with all his tremendous strength, smiting Sawaris’ forehead, which spouted a fountain of blood. At once his hand loosened around his club, and it dropped. He staggered backward, then fell motionless on his back, and a man’s voice rang out over the racket of the colliding clubs: “Sawaris is killed!” Agrama got the man above the nose with a blow of his club, and he screamed and retreated, stumbled over a body and fell. The determination of Qassem’s men was strengthened, and they redoubled their blows. Sawaris’ men began to straggle, horrified by the number of their fallen men, and they began to withdraw, then run away. Qassem’s men gathered around him, panting, some streaming with blood and others wounded. By the lamplight diffused through the panes of the coffeehouse doors, they saw the bodies strewn on the ground, some dead, others unconscious.

  Hamroush stood over the body of Sawaris. “Now you can sleep in peace, Shaaban!” he cried.

  Qassem pulled him aside. “The day of victory is near, the day when the rest of the gangsters will meet the same fate; the day we become masters of our own alley, owners of our estate and dutiful children of Gabalawi.”

  When they went back to the mountain, the women received them with joyful trilling, and news of the victory spread quickly. Qassem repaired to his hut.

  “You’re all dusty and bloody. You should have a bath before you sleep,” Badriya told him.

  When he lay down after his bath, he moaned with pain. She brought him food and waited for him to sit up and eat it, but he was in a state between waking and sleeping. He felt a relaxation that resembled happiness and a feeling of unease that was like sorrow.

  “Eat your food,” said Badriya.

  He looked at her through heavy, dreaming eyes. “You’ll see victory soon, Qamar,” he said.

  He realized his slip of the tongue too late, and saw the change in Badriya’s face. He sat up in his bed on the ground. “Your cooking is so good,” he said lovingly, if a little embarrassed.

  But, frow
ning, she ignored his show of affection. He took a piece of falafel, and said, “It’s my turn to invite you to eat!”

  She turned her face away, muttering, “She was old, and not beautiful.”

  His straight back bowed over in anguish, as if he were collapsing, and he spoke to her with burning sorrow and rebuke. “Don’t say anything bad about her. Someone like her should never be mentioned except kindly.”

  Her head turned vigorously toward him, but she saw the terrible grief on his face, and faltered. She said nothing.

  87

  The vanquished went home in total disgrace, staying as far away as possible from the lights of Sawaris’ house, whose atmosphere still glittered with the joy of the wedding and entertainment. Every man went home. Then, as the bad news spread like fire, many houses became loud with shrieking, and the wedding reception was extinguished as if smothered with dirt. Voices lamented Sawaris, and then the men who had died with him. The tragedy encompassed some men of Rifaa and others of Gabal who had taken part in the procession. Who was the criminal attacker? Qassem, Qassem the sheep boy, Qassem who would have been nothing but a beggar for all his born days if it hadn’t been for Qamar! One man swore he had followed Qassem’s gang on their way home, until they reached their refuge above Muqattam. Many people wondered whether they would remain on the mountain until they had destroyed the men of the alley. Sleepers were woken up by the shouting and went out into the alley and courtyards.

  “Kill the Desert Rats!” shouted one of the men of Gabal angrily.

  “They haven’t done anything,” Galta said, restraining him. “Their protector is dead, and a large number of their men.”

  “Burn Muqattam!”

  “Get Qassem’s corpse and feed it to the dogs!”

  “I’ll divorce my wife if I don’t drink his blood!”

  “The bastard, the coward, the rat!”

  “He thinks he’s safe on the mountain!”

  “He won’t be safe anyplace but in his grave!”

  “When I’d give him a coin, he used to kiss the ground!”

  “He used to pretend to be nice and friendly toward us, now he’s turned on us and killed our men!”

  The next day, the whole alley was in mourning. The day after, all the gangsters met at Rifaat the overseer’s house. He was boiling with rage and hatred, and spoke with bitter mockery. “Let’s shut ourselves up in our alley, to keep death out!”

  Lahita was the most humiliated of all of them, but he wanted to belittle the misadventure in order to minimize his responsibility. “What was it but a fight between a protector and some of the men in his territory!” he said.

  “They killed one man from my area and wounded three,” Galta protested.

  “They killed one of ours,” said Hagag.

  “The real damage is to your reputation, as protector of the alley,” said Rifaat slyly to Lahita, who turned pale with anger.

  “A shepherd! I swear to God, you must be joking!”

  “A shepherd!” repeated the overseer, no less seriously. “He was, but now he’s a danger. We took his raving too lightly for too long, and overlooked him out of consideration for his wife, but his mischief is out of control now. He pretended to be poor until he was able to kill his gangster and his followers. Now he’s holed up on the mountain, and his ambitions have no limits.”

  They exchanged angry looks, and the overseer resumed. “He is attracting people, and that is the tragedy of the alley. We cannot ignore that. He is promising the estate to people, even though the estate isn’t big enough for its owners, but no one believes that; the beggars don’t believe that, and there are enough of them! Our alley is an alley of beggars! He promises to end gang rule, and the cowards love that—and there are enough of them! It’s an alley of cowards. The people will always side with the winner. If we do nothing, we’re dead.”

  “He has a bunch of mice around him—we can wipe them out!” exclaimed Lahita.

  “But aren’t they up there on the mountain?” asked Hagag.

  “We can watch the mountain until we find a way in,” said Galta.

  “Just act. If we do nothing—as I said—we’re dead.”

  Lahita grew even angrier, and addressed the overseer solemnly. “Do you remember, sir, that I planned to have him killed, when his wife was alive, and your wife was against it?”

  The overseer unlocked his eyes from Lahita’s, and spoke almost apologetically. “Remembering mistakes doesn’t do any good.” There was a long silence before he continued: “Besides, these relationships have been respected in our alley for a long time.”

  There was an unusually loud clamor outside, as if warning of renewed trouble. Their nerves tensed, and the overseer shouted for the gatekeeper and asked him what was going on.

  “They’re saying that the shepherd has joined Qassem, and driven all the sheep in the alley along with him!”

  “The dog!” shouted Lahita, jumping to his feet. “This alley of dogs! Just wait!”

  “What neighborhood was that shepherd from?” the overseer asked.

  “From the Desert Rats. His name is Zuqla.”

  88

  “Welcome, Zuqla.” Qassem embraced him.

  “I was never against you,” said the shepherd fervently. “My heart was always with you, and if I hadn’t been afraid, I would have been one of the first people to join you. As soon as I heard that Sawaris had been killed—God send him to Hell!—I hurried to you, and I drove all your enemies’ sheep ahead of me!”

  Qassem looked at the mass of sheep in the clearing between the huts, where the women were watching and chatting delightedly, then laughed. “It is legitimate to take them, considering the property of ours they have stolen in the alley.”

  In the course of that day, an unprecedented number of people joined Qassem, strengthening the general resolve and bolstering morale. But Qassem woke up early the next morning to a strange uproar. He immediately went outside and saw his men coming toward his hut, quickly and with worried looks on their faces.

  “The alley has come for revenge. They are massed below the passage.”

  “I was the first to go out to work,” said Khurda. “I saw them when I was just a few steps away, and I ran back. Some of them chased me and hit me in the back with rocks. I began to shout for Sadeq and Hassan, until a group of our brothers came to the top of the passage. They saw the danger, and threw rocks at the attackers until they withdrew.”

  Qassem looked over at the opening of the passage and saw Hassan and some of the men standing there, clutching rocks. “We can hold them off there with ten men,” he said.

  “Coming up there will mean suicide for them,” said Hamroush. “Let them come up if they want.”

  The men and women crowded around Qassem until all the huts were empty. The men brought their clubs, and the women had baskets of bricks that had been kept ready for a day like this. The first rays of light shone from the clear sky.

  “Is there any other road to the city?” asked Qassem.

  “There is a road to the south, two days’ walk from the mountain,” said Sadeq grimly.

  “I don’t think we have more than two days’ worth of water,” said Agrama.

  An uneasy murmur ran through the crowd, especially from the women.

  “They have come for revenge, not a siege,” said Qassem. “If they surround us, we’ll head for the other road to break the siege.”

  He began to think, keeping his face serene, for every eye was upon it. If they were besieged, they would have the greatest trouble bringing water by the southern road. If his men attacked them, could they be sure of success against such men as Lahita, Galta and Hagag? What destiny did this day have in store for them? He went back to his hut, and returned holding his club. He walked over to Hassan and his men at the opening of the passage.

  “None of them will dare to come any closer,” said Hassan.

  Qassem stepped to the mountain ledge and saw his enemies gathered in a crescent-shaped formation in the desert
, far out of rock-throwing range. Their sheer numbers were frightening, but he was unable to make out any gangsters among them. His gaze moved over the empty space to the mansion, Gabalawi’s house, immersed in silence, as if oblivious to his children’s struggle for his sake. How desperately they needed his supernatural strength, to which this place had submitted in the past. Perhaps he would not be assailed by anxiety, had it not been for Rifaa’s murder so near his ancestor’s house. He felt an urge, deep inside him, to shout “Gabalawi!” at the top of his voice, as the people of his alley did all the time, but he heard the voices of the women nearby, and turned to look around. He saw the men spreading out over the mountain ledge and watching their enemies, and the women heading for the same spots. He shouted for them to come back, and shouted again when they hesitated. He ordered them to prepare food and do their usual chores, and they obeyed him.

  Sadeq came over to Qassem. “That was the right thing to do. The most worrisome thing for me is the power of Lahita’s name over us.”

  “The only thing we can do is strike,” said Hassan, shaking his club. “It will be impossible for us to go out and earn livings now that they know our hiding place. The only thing we can do is attack.”

  Qassem turned his head to look out toward the mansion. “What you say is true. What do you say, Sadeq?”

  “Let’s wait until nightfall.”

  “Waiting will only hurt us,” said Hassan. “And darkness won’t help us in battle.”

  “So what’s their plan?”

  “To force us to go down to them.”

  Qassem thought that over. “If Lahita is killed, victory is assured,” he said, looking from one man to the other. “If he falls, Galta and Hagag will battle it out to succeed him.”

  As the sun rose higher, the gravelly ground blazed with the heat that radiated everywhere.

  “Tell me, what will we do?” said Hassan. He meant: about the siege; but before anyone could answer, there was a shout from a woman in the square, immediately followed by other shouts.

  “We’re being attacked from the other side!” someone shouted.