Children of the Alley

by Naguib Mahfouz

  The prison he lived in, maybe; or the hatred all around him; or the goal he had failed to reach. “Losing my youth.”

  “No, you don’t worry about that.”

  “Why not, when my wife is mad at me.”

  “She’ll always find one reason or another to get mad.”

  The breeze grew brisker, the rustle of the branches grew louder, and the coals glowed in the brazier.

  “Why do we die, Arafa?”

  Arafa looked at him gloomily but said nothing.

  “Even Gabalawi died,” the overseer went on.

  It was like a needle piercing his heart, but he managed to speak. “We’re all dead, the children of the dead.”

  “You don’t need me to remind you what you said,” he said grumpily.

  “Long may you live, sir.”

  “Long or short, the end of it is the grave that worms love.”

  “Don’t let your thoughts ruin your fun,” said Arafa.

  “It never leaves me, death. Death, death, always death. It could come at any moment, and for the slightest reason, or without any reason at all. Where is Gabalawi? Where are the men the poets sang of? This was one death that shouldn’t have been.”

  Arafa looked at his pale face and terror-stricken eyes. His mental state was the opposite of this place. “The important thing is that life is how it should be,” he said gently.

  Qadri made an angry gesture and spoke with a sharpness that killed their pleasure. “Life is how it should be, and better. Nothing is missing. Even youth can be restored with pills, but what good is that when death follows us like a shadow? How can I forget it, when death itself reminds me every hour?”

  He enjoyed his discomfort, but quickly was disgusted by his own feelings. He watched the beautiful girl’s hands with love and longing, asking inwardly, Who can promise me I’ll see another night’s moon?

  “We probably need another drink,” he said.

  “We’ll still wake up in the morning.” Arafa despised this man, and sensed an opportunity he wanted to seize. “If it weren’t for the resentment of the deprived people all around us, our life wouldn’t leave a bad taste in our mouths.”

  The overseer laughed contemptuously. “You talk like an old woman. If we were able to make the alley people’s lives better, up to our level, would death stop hunting us?”

  Arafa nodded resignedly, until the man talked out his irritation, then said, “Death prospers in poverty, misery and bad conditions.”

  “And everyplace else, stupid.”

  “Yes.” Arafa smiled. “Because it’s contagious, like some diseases.”

  “That’s a strange view to defend your ignorance.” The overseer chuckled.

  “We don’t know anything about it,” said Arafa, emboldened by his laughter. “It might be that way. As people live better, the pain lessens, life gets more valuable and every happy person wants to fight death to keep as much of his happy life as possible.”

  “None of that helps a dead man.”

  “But magicians will get together and dedicate themselves to resisting death. Everyone who’s able will work magic. Death will be threatened with death.”

  The overseer emitted a peal of high-pitched laughter, then closed his eyes to dream. Arafa took up the pipe and sucked at it for one very long breath, until the coals glowed. The lute started playing again, after a silence, and the lovely voice began to sing, “Tarry, O night.”

  “You’re a hash-head, Arafa, not a magician.”

  “This is how we kill death,” said Arafa simply.

  “Why don’t you do your work alone?”

  “I work every day, but he doesn’t prevent me from working alone.”

  The overseer listened to the music for a while, without enthusiasm. “If only you succeeded, Arafa! What would you do if you succeeded?”

  “I’d bring Gabalawi back to life,” he said so quickly that the words seem to speak of their own accord.

  The man curled his lip listlessly. “That’s your own business, in your capacity as his killer.”

  Arafa frowned, pained, and murmured inaudibly. “If only you succeeded, Arafa!”

  111

  Arafa left the overseer’s house at dawn. He had drugged himself into a magical world of cloudy sights and sounds, and his feet could hardly carry him. He moved toward his house in the sleeping alley that gleamed with moonlight. Halfway between the overseer’s house and his own—in front of the mansion gate—a human figure appeared. He did not know where it had come from.

  “Good morning, Arafa, sir!” it said in a near-whisper.

  He was surprised by fear, perhaps triggered by the surprise, but his two bodyguards jumped on the figure and subdued it. He looked at it closely, and his unbelieving eyes told him that it was the figure of a black woman dressed in black from her neck to her feet. He ordered the servants to let her go, and they did.

  “What is it, my lady?”

  “I want to talk to you alone,” she said in a voice that confirmed that she was black.

  “Why?”

  “A sad woman wants to tell you her troubles.”

  “God comfort you,” he muttered irritably. This was said to beggars instead of giving them money. He was about to go.

  “By your ancestor’s dear life,” she implored touchingly. “Please.”

  He stared at her angrily, but could not take his eyes from her. He wondered where and when he had seen that face before. Then his heart pounded so hard that it knocked the drunkenness out of his head. This was the face he had seen at the threshold of Gabalawi’s room when he was hiding behind the chair on that doomed night! This was Gabalawi’s servant, who shared his room! He was overcome with fear. His joints weakened as he stared at her in terror.

  “Shall we chase her away?” one of his servants asked.

  “Go to the gate of the house and wait there,” he told them.

  He waited until they had left, and they had the space in front of the mansion to themselves. He looked at her thin black face, high, narrow forehead and pointed chin, and the wrinkles that crowded her mouth and forehead. He said, to reassure himself, that she had not seen him that night, but where had she been since Gabalawi’s death, and why was she here?

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I have no complaint,” she said calmly. “But I wanted to tell you everything, to keep a promise.”

  “A promise?”

  She moved her head close to his. “I was Gabalawi’s servant. He died in my arms!”

  “You!”

  “Yes, me. Believe me.”

  He needed no proof. “How did our ancestor die?” he asked uneasily.

  “He was terribly shaken after the discovery of a servant’s corpse, and all of a sudden he died. I hurried to him to support his back. It was trembling! That giant, whom the desert itself obeyed!”

  Arafa’s sigh was so hot that it disturbed the night’s silence, and he bowed his head sadly, as if to hide it from the moonlight.

  The woman resumed her story. “I came to you to carry out his will.”

  He lifted his head to her, shaking. “What is it? Tell me.”

  Her voice was as calm as the moonlight. “He told me, before he passed away, ‘Go to Arafa the magician, and tell him for me that his ancestor died pleased with him.’ ”

  Arafa jumped as if he had been stung. “You liar! What are you trying to do?”

  “What is wrong?”

  “Tell me what kind of a game you’re playing.”

  “Only what I said. God is my witness.”

  “What do you know about the killer?” he asked her suspiciously.

  “I don’t know anything, sir,” she said innocently. “Since my master passed away, I’ve been bedridden. When I got better, the first thing I did was go to you.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “ ‘Go to Arafa the magician, and tell him for me that his ancestor died pleased with him.’ ”

  “Liar!” said Arafa menacingly. “You think y
ou’re pretty smart. You know that I—” He changed his tone of voice. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “I asked for you as soon as I came, and they told me that you were at the overseer’s, so I waited.”

  “They didn’t tell you that I killed Gabalawi?”

  “No one killed Gabalawi!” She was very alarmed. “No one would have been able to kill him!”

  “Whoever killed his servant killed him.”

  “That’s a lie! The man died in my arms!” she shouted angrily.

  Arafa wanted to cry, but could not produce one tear. He looked sideways at the woman.

  “I will leave you, sir,” she said simply.

  “Do you swear you were telling the truth?” he asked her in a very hoarse and gruff voice, as if it were his tortured conscience speaking.

  “I swear by the Lord, who is my witness,” she said clearly.

  She left as the hues of dawn were dyeing the horizon. He followed her with his eyes until she disappeared. In his bedroom, he fell in a faint. He came to a few minutes later, feeling exhausted to death, and fell asleep. His sleep lasted only two hours before he was awakened by inner anguish. He called Hanash, and the man came to him. He told him the woman’s story.

  Hanash stared at him in confusion, and laughed when the story was over. “What were you smoking last night?”

  “I did not imagine what I saw last night. It was real, I’m sure of that.”

  “Sleep,” said Hanash earnestly. “You need a good deep sleep.”

  “Don’t you believe me?”

  “Of course not. And if you sleep like I’m telling you to, and wake up later, you won’t believe it either.”

  “Why don’t you believe me?”

  Hanash laughed. “I was at the window as you left the overseer’s house. I saw you coming through the alley toward your house. You stood for a little while in front of the mansion, then kept going, with your servants behind you!”

  Arafa jumped to his feet. “Get the servants!” he said triumphantly.

  “No,” said Hanash, cautioning him with a finger. “They’ll only wonder about your sanity.”

  “I’ll ask them to say what they saw, in front of you.”

  “The servants respect us little enough as it is. Don’t throw that away.”

  A mad gleam came into Arafa’s eye, and he spoke stuporously. “I’m not crazy. I didn’t imagine it! Gabalawi died pleased with me.”

  “Maybe,” said Hanash sympathetically. “But don’t call any of the servants.”

  “If there’s going to be trouble, it will land on you first.”

  “God forbid,” said Hanash gently. “Let’s let the woman speak for herself. Where did she go?”

  Arafa frowned, trying to remember, then said worriedly, “I forgot to ask her where she lives.”

  “If what you saw was real, why did you let her go?”

  “It was real!” Arafa insisted. “I’m not crazy. Gabalawi died pleased with me.”

  “Don’t get excited,” said Hanash patiently. “You need to rest.”

  He came close to him, ruffled his hair and gently pushed him toward the bed, staying there until he lay down. Arafa closed his eyes wearily, and fell into a deep sleep.

  112

  Arafa spoke calmly but resolutely. “I’ve decided to get out of here.”

  Hanash was so surprised that his hands stopped working. He looked around warily, and although the workroom was locked, he looked afraid.

  Arafa ignored his surprise and went on, his hands working busily. “This prison just makes me think of death. I feel as though parties and drinking and dancers are the overtures of death. I smell the odor of graves in every garden of flowers.”

  “But real death is waiting for us in the alley,” said Hanash uneasily.

  “We’ll go far away from the alley.” He looked him straight in the eye. “And someday we’ll come back victorious.”

  “If we can get out!”

  “The bastards trust us. We can get out of here.”

  They worked on in silence for a while.

  “Isn’t that what you wanted?” Arafa asked.

  “I had almost forgotten,” Hanash murmured timidly. “But tell me. What made you decide that today?”

  Arafa smiled. “My ancestor let it be known that he was pleased with me, even though I attacked his house and killed his servant.”

  The surprise came back into Hanash’s face. “Will you risk your life for a vision you saw when you were on drugs?”

  “Call it what you want, but I am positive that when he died he was pleased with me. Neither the attack nor the killing angered him, but if he saw the way I live now, the world couldn’t hold all his anger.” He lowered his voice. “That’s why he reminded me that he used to be pleased with me!”

  Hanash shook his head, marveling at this. “You never used to speak of him with respect.”

  “That was before, when I was so doubtful. Now that he’s dead—the dead deserve respect.”

  “God rest his soul.”

  “God forbid I should forget that I was the cause of his death. That’s why I must restore him to life if I can. If I’m able to succeed, we will never know death.”

  Hanash stared at him dejectedly. “All magic has given you so far are some stimulant pills and destructive bottles.”

  “We know where magic begins, but we cannot even imagine where it ends.” He looked around the room. “We’ll pack up everything but the notebook, Hanash—that’s the treasure of our secrets, I’ll carry it in my shirt. Getting out of here won’t be as hard as you think.”

  Arafa went as usual to the overseer’s house that evening, and came back to his house a little before dawn. He found Hanash awake and waiting for him. They stayed in the bedroom for an hour, until they were sure the servants were asleep, then slipped out to the terrace together, very lightly and cautiously. The snoring of the servant sleeping on the balcony over the terrace rose regularly, so they stole down the steps and headed for the gate. Hanash went to the gatekeeper’s bed and lifted his arm that held a cane, and brought it down, but it struck only a lifeless cotton form and made a sound that disturbed the stillness of the night. So the gatekeeper was not in his bed. They were afraid that the sound might have woken someone, and stayed behind the door with pounding hearts. Arafa lifted the bolt and slowly opened the gate, then went out. Hanash followed him. They reclosed the gate and moved out through the silent darkness, toward Umm Zanfil’s building, staying close to the walls. Halfway down the alley they met a recumbent dog that stood up curiously and ran toward them, sniffing. It followed them for a few steps, then stopped and yawned.

  When they reached the entrance of the building, Arafa whispered, “Wait for me here. If you hear anything, give a whistle and go to Muqattam Marketplace.”

  Arafa went into the building and crossed the hall to the stairway. He climbed up to Umm Zanfil’s room, and knocked at the door until he heard his wife’s voice asking who was there. He spoke rapidly, with feeling. “It’s Arafa. Open up, Awatif.”

  She opened the door, and he saw her face, wan with sleep, in the light of the small lantern in her hand.

  “Follow me. We’re going to escape together,” he said immediately.

  As she stood looking at him dazedly, Umm Zanfil appeared behind her shoulder.

  “We’ll escape from the alley. We’ll be the way we were before. Hurry.”

  She hesitated a little, then spoke with a hint of exasperation. “What made you think of me?”

  “You can blame me later,” he said with frantic longing. “Time is too precious now.”

  There was a whistle from Hanash, and confused sounds.

  “The dogs!” he cried. “We’ve lost our chance, Awatif.”

  He jumped to the head of the stairs and saw, in the building’s open hall, lights and human forms. He stepped back in despair.

  “Come in,” said Awatif.

  “Don’t come in,” said Umm Zanfil roughly, in self-defense.


  What was the point in going in? He gestured to a small window in the room and asked his wife quickly, “Where does it go?”

  “The skylight.”

  He reached into his chest for the notebook, went for the window, pushing Umm Zanfil out of his way, and tossed it out. He hurried out of the room, closing the door behind him, and leaped up the few stairs that led to the roof. He looked over the front wall down to the alley. It was swarming with people and torches, and he heard the racket of people coming up toward him. He ran to the side wall abutting the next building on the Gamaliya side, but saw people getting there before him, led by someone carrying a torch. He went to the other wall, adjacent to one of the Rifaa buildings, only to see the lights of torches coming out of the door that opened onto that roof. He imagined that he could hear Umm Zanfil’s cries. Had they attacked her place? Had they taken Awatif? He heard a voice coming from the door of the roof.

  “Surrender, Arafa!”

  He stood submissively, not uttering a word. No one came near him, but the voice spoke again.

  “If you throw a bottle, we’ll shower you with bottles.”

  “I have nothing on me.”

  They came at him and surrounded him. He saw among them Yunis, the overseer’s gatekeeper, who now approached him, shouting, “You criminal! Bastard! Ingrate!”

  In the alley he saw two men shoving Awatif along before them.

  “Leave her alone,” he begged passionately. “She has nothing to do with me.”

  But he was silenced by a blow to his temple.

  113

  Arafa and Awatif stood before the raging overseer, their hands bound behind their backs. The overseer punched him in the face until his fist ached.

  “You visited me like a friend while you were plotting against me, you son of a whore!” he screeched.

  “He only came to me to make peace with me,” Awatif said, weeping.

  The overseer spat in her face. “Shut up, you evil bitch!”

  “She’s innocent,” said Arafa. “She has nothing to do with this.”

  “She was your partner in the murder of Gabalawi and all of your crimes.” He roared, “You wanted to escape! I’ll help you escape from the whole world!”