52.
The sun shone again after a cold, stormy night. The shop belonging to the sheikh of the alley opened its doors. The new sheikh was called Mahmoud Qatayif. The people sensed that the government was beginning to recover from the onslaught of death and destruction and replace those of its officers who had perished in the plague.
Many saw this as a good sign but the reaction was different in Ashur’s household. Ashur was full of misgivings and Fulla, horrified, held Shams al-Din close to her and murmured, “Things look bad.”
“Surely what’s past is past,” Ashur said worriedly.
“You’re as frightened as I am, Ashur.”
“What have we done wrong? We found some money that didn’t belong to anybody and spent it in a way which benefited the community.”
“But isn’t that man threatening to harm us?”
Ashur’s anger flared. “Let’s trust in God,” he shouted. “He’s the true owner of the money.”
Fulla cradled Shams al-Din in her arms. “All I want is for the river of bounty to flow on until this child can swim in it.”
53.
Ashur decided to confront the threat without further delay. He went to introduce himself to the new sheikh, who received him warmly: “Welcome to our lord and protector.”
Joy filled Ashur’s heart as he returned the greeting.
“Do you know, master,” went on the sheikh, “I was about to come and see you.”
Ashur’s heart jumped but he said evenly, “You’re welcome at any time.”
“I need to hear al-Nagi’s version of events—the man best placed to tell me how the alley was wiped out.”
54.
Thus Mahmoud Qatayif entered Ashur’s house. The two men sat side by side on the divan in the reception hall, while Fulla hovered behind the half-open door. They sipped coffee and exchanged pleasantries, then the sheikh came to the point: “I need the opinion of the man the community regards as its benefactor.”
“I’m at your disposal,” replied Ashur unenthusiastically.
“A commission has been set up recently to make inventories of the houses of the rich…yours among them.”
“God have mercy on the souls of the dead.”
“We’ve discovered that a number of these houses have been looted.”
“But there wasn’t a soul about!”
“The inventories show that looting has taken place.”
“How strange! I pray God the money went to those who deserved it.”
“Deserved it?”
“The poor, I mean.”
Mahmoud Qatayif smiled. “That’s a theory, I suppose, but not one the government subscribes to.”
“What’s their theory?”
“These houses are to be considered Treasury property and put up for auction.”
Ashur looked sharply at him. “What about the looting?”
Qatayif shrugged his shoulders. “The commission’s decided to overlook it, to avoid accusing innocent people.”
Ashur realized that the looters were none other than the members of the government commission. Although he was disgusted, much of his confidence returned. He said jokingly, “Perhaps the commission is applying my theory, sheikh!”
“One problem remains,” said the sheikh regretfully.
Ashur looked inquiringly at him, still sure of his own position.
“The commission wants to examine the documents relating to your ownership of this house. Then it will have done its job.”
With one treacherous blow his sense of security was destroyed. For an instant his eyes met Fulla’s behind the door.
“Do you have any doubts that I’m the legal owner?”
“God forbid! But orders are orders.”
“I want to know what’s behind these orders,” he said in his hoarse voice.
“In neighboring areas there have been cases of people taking over houses that don’t belong to them,” murmured the sheikh.
A silence, fraught with apprehension and doubt, enveloped the two men. Then Ashur suddenly spoke: “Supposing I’d lost them in the chaos of death and exile?”
“That would be extremely awkward,” muttered the sheikh uneasily.
“Awkward!” roared Ashur in anger. “Aren’t they satisfied with what they’ve taken already?”
The sheikh trembled at the force of Ashur’s voice. “I’m only carrying out orders,” he said apologetically.
“You must have more information. Tell me what you know.”
“The problem is that one of the members of the commission has some reservations.”
“To hell with him!”
“The documents would resolve all doubt.”
“They’re lost.”
In a soft, fearful voice the sheikh said, “This will cause problems, Master Ashur.”
At this point Fulla burst furiously into the room. “That’s enough beating about the bush,” she stormed at the sheikh.
The man rose to his feet in embarrassment. “You’ve got nothing to lose. Let’s settle this between ourselves,” she said, her words as plain as a blow from a club.
“If it was only up to me, it would be easy,” said the sheikh sadly.
Ashur jumped up in annoyance. “Let’s get it over with,” he said.
55.
Things were going on both openly and behind the scenes which the alley, absorbed in its daily activities, never suspected. Few of its inhabitants could notice something without drawing conclusions. But their hearts, drunk with hope, trusted in the light which surrounded them.
One morning the giant figure of Ashur al-Nagi appeared in their midst in handcuffs, his head bowed. It was him; it couldn’t be anyone else. Surrounded by soldiers with an officer at their head and Mahmoud Qatayif bringing up the rear.
Angry astonishment spread like sparks from a fire, drawing people from their shops and houses and bringing curious faces to fill the windows.
“What’s going on?”
“What’s happening to the world?”
“A saintly man like that in handcuffs!”
“Clear the way!” roared the officer.
But they flocked together at the rear of the procession, sticking to it like a shadow, until the officer shouted, “Anyone who comes near the police station will be in trouble.”
Darwish could not believe what he was seeing and in a loud voice, clearly intended for Ashur to hear, he said, “By my brother’s life, I never said a thing!”
Fulla was a model of grieving beauty, with Shams al-Din on her hip and a bundle over her shoulder, her eyes red from weeping.
56.
Ashur’s trial was one of those events which sticks in the mind for years afterward. A huge crowd from the alley attended, following each twist and turn with beating hearts. For the first time they were united in their love and affection. Ashur stood in the dock, glowing with pride at the warmth round about him. Perhaps the judges admired his giant’s body or leonine features; in any case the people would never forget the sound of his hoarse voice as he spoke in his own defense: “I am not a thief. I have never robbed anyone, believe me. Death had ravaged our alley. I returned from the desert to find it empty and abandoned. The house no longer had an owner. Isn’t it fitting that it should be given to the sole survivor? And I didn’t keep the money for myself. I thought of it as God’s, and of myself as His servant entrusted with spending it to His greater glory. There are no starving or unemployed left in our alley and we want for nothing. We have a drinking fountain, a trough for the animals, a small mosque. So why have you arrested me like a common thief? Why do you want to punish me?”
The public chorused their agreement. Even the judges smiled inside themselves all the time he was speaking. They sentenced him to one year in prison.
57.
Fulla returned to the basement room without a penny. She found people genuinely ready to care for her. They brought her food, water, firewood. The air was fragrant with kind words.
The disclosure of
Ashur’s secret did nothing to detract from the love and respect people felt for him. On the contrary, it may have helped to create a legendary figure of him, braver and more heroic than before.
All the same, Fulla decided not to live off charity, and went to work in the Darasa market, far from prying eyes.
One day Darwish stood blocking her path. “You have my sympathy, Mother of Shams al-Din,” he said in a gruff voice.
“You must be enjoying this, Darwish!” she retorted sharply.
“I had nothing to do with it,” he said vehemently, “Mahmoud Qatayif will testify to that.”
“It must be convenient for you, though.”
“God forgive you! What do I gain from him being in prison?”
“Don’t pretend you’re not pleased, Darwish.”
“God forgive you…But let’s stop quarreling,” he said, suddenly ingratiating, “and let me give you some advice.”
“Advice?”
“It’s not right for you to work alone in the Darasa market.”
“Do you have a better idea?” she scoffed.
“You could work where I could keep an eye on you.”
“In the bar!”
“At least you’d be quite safe there.”
“To hell with you!” And she walked off without saying goodbye.
The same evening she heard that he had formed a gang to get himself appointed chief of the local clan.
58.
When she visited Ashur and saw him in prison clothes her eyes filled with tears. Shams al-Din bounded happily forward so that his father could kiss him through the bars. Ashur asked how she was. “Everything’s fine. I’m working in the Darasa market,” she assured him.
He seemed angry and resentful. “The injustice is harder to take than prison,” he said. “I’ve done nothing to deserve this.”
He repeated this last sentence several times over, then, the note of protest rising in his voice, he added, “Not one of the men in here is as evil as Darwish.”
“And do you know what?” she broke in scornfully. “He asked me to come back and work for him!”
“Bastard! What about the sheikh?”
“He treats me with respect.”
“He’s a bastard too. And he really is a thief.”
“You can’t imagine how many people send their greetings.”
“Bless them! How I miss hearing the anthems!”
“You’ll soon be back listening to them. The animal trough and the fountain and the mosque have become reminders of you. Linked with your name forever.”
“They should remind people of God.”
Fulla smiled wanly. Then she said, “The bad news is that Darwish has become our new chief.”
Ashur frowned. “That won’t do him any good.”
Fulla was amazed at how healthy and rejuvenated he appeared, against all the odds.
59.
Ashur al-Nagi was never far from people’s thoughts throughout his stay in prison. The harafish waited impatiently for the day he would return. Others took elaborate precautions. Darwish surrounded himself with hangers-on, keeping them loyal with cash from the protection rackets he ran. Mahmoud Qatayif encouraged him. “It’s numbers that count, no matter how strong the individual.”
The rich supported him, alarmed at the affection shown for the absent Ashur. The general consensus was that he should be restrained or done away with.
Season followed season. The dervishes in the monastery continued to chant their mysterious anthems. At last the appointed day arrived.
Sheikh Mahmoud looked about him. “God Almighty!” he breathed angrily.
Flags fluttered on the rooftops and over shop doorways. Lamps were strung across the alley, bright sand strewn on the ground, and congratulations rippled through the air.
“All this because a thief is coming out of prison,” he grumbled.
He saw Darwish approaching. “Everything ready to welcome the king?” he hailed him.
“Haven’t you heard the news?” said Dar wish in a low, troubled voice. He proceeded to tell him how his gang had abandoned him and gone off to the main square to welcome Ashur. Not one of them had stood by him.
The sheikh blanched. “Bastards!” he muttered. Then he whispered in Darwish’s ear. “We’ll have to think again.”
As he moved away, Darwish was saying, “He’s the new chief. He didn’t even have to fight for it.”
From the main square came the sounds of drumming and piping. At once men, women, and children surged out into the alley. A procession came into view, leading a swaying carriage where Ashur sat enthroned, surrounded by the erstwhile members of Darwish’s gang.
The onlookers cheered, applauded, and danced for joy. So great was the crush that the cart took about an hour to cover the distance between the entrance to the alley and the little mosque.
The drumming and dancing went on until dawn the next day.
Epilogue
Ashur al-Nagi became clan chief without a fight. As the harafish expected, he set about his duties in an entirely different manner from his predecessors. He returned to his trade as a carter and lived in the basement room of his earlier days. He obliged all his followers to work for a living, thus eliminating the thugs and bullies. Only the rich had to pay protection money, which was used to benefit the poor and disabled. He subdued the chiefs of neighboring alleys and gave our alley a new dignity. As well as the respect of the outside world, it enjoyed justice, honor, and security at home.
Ashur would sit in the monastery square late into the night, transported by the sacred melodies. Spreading his hands before him he would pray, “O God, preserve and increase my strength so that I can use it to protect your faithful servants.”
The second tale in the epic of the harafish
1.
Under the merciful shadow of justice pain is lost in the recesses of oblivion. Hearts bloom with confidence, drinking in the nectar of the mulberry trees, delighting in the sound of the anthems, without understanding their meaning. But will the brightness and the clear skies last forever?
2.
For the first time Fulla awoke and did not find Ashur asleep at her side. Her eyelids, heavy with sleep, flickered uneasily and her chest contracted with fear. She prayed God to protect her from a lover’s forebodings. The sweet, safe world around her gave way to bleak emptiness. Where was the prodigious young man of sixty, still strong, energetic, black-haired? Had he fallen asleep during his nightly vigil in front of the monastery?
She called Shams al-Din. He woke up, grumbling. His handsome face looked inquiringly at her.
“Your father’s not back yet,” she said.
He took time to absorb her words, then pushed the cover back and stood up, slender, tallish. “What’s happened to him?” he muttered anxiously.
“Perhaps he fell asleep,” she answered, fighting her apprehensions.
As he dressed, his grace and beauty became more apparent, crowned with the innocence of early youth.
“How can anyone want to stay up till daybreak in autumn?” he said as he went out of the door.
3.
Outside a damp breeze blew. The last strands of mist were vanishing and life began to stir. Before long he would find his father asleep with nothing over him. He would scold him gently, which the intimacy between them allowed him to do.
He went through the archway to the monastery square, peering in front of him as he prepared himself for the saga of their meeting. However, he found the place deserted. He looked about him in troubled silence: the square, the monastery, the ancient wall, but no trace of a human being. This was the spot where his giant of a father usually sat. Where had he gone?
He threw a furious glance at the monastery; as usual it gave nothing away. Where had he gone?
4.
Perhaps he would find out the answer from Ghassan or Dahshan, Ashur’s right-hand men. But they were surprised to see him and said Ashur had gone to the square a little before midnight and stayed an h
our or two, no more.
“Could he have arranged to meet somebody?” ventured Shams al-Din, but they claimed to know nothing more of his movements.
After some hesitation he went to see Sheikh Mahmoud, who received the news with surprise and became lost in thought.
“So the lion’s vanished,” he said finally. “Don’t worry. He knows what he’s doing. He’ll be back before morning.”
5.
Fulla’s strength of will abandoned her. She cried out, “Receive me in your arms, Lord! Spare me from my fears!”
Shams al-Din sat with his father’s men in the café, talking and waiting. From time to time they glanced toward the archway or the corner of the alley, where it joined the main square. Autumn clouds filled the sky, silvery from the light behind them. Midday came and there was still no sign of Ashur. The men split up and went off in different directions in search of clues. By now the whole alley had heard the news and was consumed by it; nobody bothered to work.
6.
The well-off and the merchants were astounded by the news. Magic filled the air they breathed like a miracle. For when people are caught in the grip of an unyielding force and see no chance of escape, they are desperate to believe in miracles. Had they not feared their hopes would soon be dashed, they would have dropped their guard and gloated openly. Only a miracle could deliver them from the tyrant’s authority, from his eternal youth, his iron will! So they prayed for his absence to last, the legend to be buried, the present order reversed once and for all.
“Where’s he gone?” Darwish inquired of Sheikh Mahmoud.
“Do you think I’ve got second sight?” said the sheikh scathingly.
Darwish shook his white head. “There’s one possibility we shouldn’t overlook,” he murmured, “and that’s his weakness for women.”
The sheikh smiled in a superior way but made no comment and Darwish went on, “I thought he’d be around for a hundred years!”
“He creates that which ye do not know,” intoned the sheikh under his breath.
7.
Evening fell. The night drifted in, unexpectedly cold, and there was no sign of Ashur. The café, the bar, the hashish dens, were cloaked in gloom. His family and his followers watched and waited, unable to sleep.
The Harafish Page 6