‘Woe is me!’ he said to himself as he felt the tension build in his very soul, ‘I can’t concentrate on my work.’
He started to loathe his life, both in the shop and at home, sensing that he and his family were being manipulated by a demon.
‘If you keep this up,’ he whispered to her one day, on his way home, ‘no one’s going to find your corpse.’
She was not afraid, nor did she withdraw. Instead she was content to play with her baby. Boss Uthman could not stand it anymore, watching the world, and the woman carrying her baby, hovering around his shop. He took his friend, the Head of the Quarter, aside and shared his worries with him.
‘What really scares me,’ he finished by saying, ‘is that she’s going to create a scandal out of nothing.’
The Head of the Quarter stared at him long and hard but did not express any doubts about what he had been told.
‘If the woman weren’t making false claims,’ he told Uthman, ‘I would advise you to swallow your pride and get back to doing the work God has ordained for you.’
‘But she is making false claims,’ Uthman replied in a broken voice.
‘She can still embroil you in a scandal, and people will believe her.’
‘But you wouldn’t let that happen.’
‘I’ll work on getting her to leave the quarter,’ said the Head of the Quarter, after a moment’s reflection. ‘She’ll get a monthly stipend, which we’ll consider charity. That will be the best solution all round.’
‘I’ll fulfill the obligation you suggest,’ sighed Boss Uthman.
Next day the Head of the Quarter summoned Zakiyya.
‘I have a happy solution for you,’ he said.
He told her about the agreement that had been reached.
‘You’ll be living in a respectable household,’ he told her, ‘and I’ll commend you to your new head of quarter.’
Silence stretched between them, a silence full of thoughts and obscure emotions. The Head of the Quarter realised that he was not getting the response he had hoped for.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ he asked her.
‘I heard what you said, Head of the Quarter,’ she replied, her neck rigid. ‘But I’m not leaving.’
‘You’re crazy!’ The Head of the Quarter was angry. ‘That’s obvious.’
‘This baby is his child,’ she said. ‘I won’t accept that kind of charity.’
‘What are you planning to do?’
‘To keep the baby where he can see it, so he’ll always remember his crime.’
Zakiyya kept up her daily routine, selling halva, taking care of the baby, and hovering in the vicinity of the shop. Boss Uthman sank further and further into suppressed misery. His anger only grew darker and more intense, and, maybe for the first time in his life, he considered murder.
But then something else occurred to him, and, right in the middle of the working day, at his wits’ end, he went to see the Head of the Quarter.
‘I’ll marry her and acknowledge the baby,’ he shouted, grabbing the Head of the Quarter’s hand as though begging for help. ‘We’ll have to live in another quarter.’
The Head of the Quarter’s reply was crystal clear:
‘That woman will never give ground on a single thing.’
SON OF THE QUARTER
From as far back as anyone could remember he had been called ‘Son of the Quarter.’ He had no known father or mother. The territory of the quarter was his turf, the cellar was his dormitory, and offering minor services was his trade and means of earning a living. He could be seen here and there, wearing his only gallabiya, always smiling and content, until his skinny frame needed some rest; then he would head for the cellar and stretch out on his bed on the ground, not far from the gate to the old fort.
One day he saw a donkey pulling a cart. It was about to crush a tiny cat that was playing in the street. ‘Stop!’ he cried out without even thinking. However, that shout of his startled Sheikh Asfouri who was making his way towards the square. Fearful and suspicious, he stood still, muttering: ‘I seek refuge in God’. He was a man who truly believed in hidden secrets. Just then, a huge stone crashed to the ground just a few feet in front of him. He had no idea how it had fallen or where from. It was obvious to everyone who witnessed the incident that, if Sheikh Asfouri had not stopped in reaction to the Son of the Quarter’s shout, the stone would have crushed him. The sheikh uttered a prayer, almost fainting in shock. He then stared fixedly at the Son of the Quarter.
‘I hereby swear that you are a good man,’ he said humbly. ‘Part of God resides within you.’
People believed what he said. The status of the Son of the Quarter now rose from that of virtual vagrant to sainthood or semi-sainthood. Loving eyes now watched over him as he went to and fro, and he received plenty of pennies and bits of bread. Some people did their best to discover his secret, but he never responded, nor did he claim to know something that he did not. Everyone grew to respect him; they said that his wondrous deeds were a sign of his tongue’s revelation of God’s own will. With every passing day he earned a yet surer place in the hearts of people until he came to know them and they him.
One night he went back to his bed on the ground in the cellar. But, before the angel of sleep could take over, a profound silence descended, one that augured some unforeseen event. The Son of the Quarter looked all around him, not understanding what was happening. Just then, a deep voice, clear and impressive, came from above:
‘Son of the Quarter,’ it intoned, ‘go to Boss Zawi and tell him to give back every illegitimate penny he owes to the people who deserve it.’
At first, he had the idea that someone was playing a trick on him, but he dismissed the thought when he recalled the feelings that had come over him and the strange tones of the voice that penetrated to his very core. Now he was afraid. He was afraid even though he was used to being alone in the dark and sleeping close to the old fort, where the quarter’s demon had resided since time immemorial.
‘Who’s speaking?’ he asked as he sat there in the dark.
When the echo bounced back from the corner of the cellar, he was jolted awake and fully conscious. He kept hoping that the whole thing was a dream or illusion, but then the same voice came back with even more force:
‘Son of the Quarter, go to Boss Zawi and tell him to give back every illegitimate penny he owes to the people who deserve it.’
He realised with a shiver that the voice he was hearing was too strong, clear and strange to belong to anyone in the quarter. Perhaps it was his turn now to contact the inhabitants of the old fort, as many people in the quarter had been called to do. That meant that he had to obey the command, in spite of Boss Zawi’s status in the community and the fact that he had been kind to him on more than one occasion. He had to obey the command. For a moment he hesitated, but then he felt the proximity of the voice’s threatening tone. With new resolve he stood up immediately and walked on his way with limitless confidence. Eventually he stopped in front of Sheikh Zawi, who was sitting between the Sheikh of the Quarter and the mosque Imam by the café. The three men stopped smoking, and Zawi looked at the Son of the Quarter.
‘What’s with you?’ he asked. ‘Are you starving?’
‘I bring you a command from the old fort,’ he replied firmly. ‘A voice has told me to come to you and tell you to give back every single illicit penny you owe to the people who deserve it.’
They were all so stunned that, for a short while, their tongues were tied. Boss Zawi was the first to recover. Walking round the narguileh pipe, he slapped the Son of the Quarter on the cheek. Then, shouting at the top of his voice, he sent him hurtling into the middle of the square. The Head of the Quarter took him back to his seat. Everyone watching the scene unfold looked furious, all of them well aware of Zawi’s temper. The Son of the Quarter staggered away, telling himself that the voice must be toying with him; it probably belonged to a nasty demon. People spread the news, but they were all inclined to believ
e that the voice belonged to one of the honest, believing demons. Otherwise, how could his opinions about Zawi and his wealth mirror their own so closely?
It was only a few days later that the voice came back to harass the Son of the Quarter. When he heard it, he went into a panic and sat there in the dark.
‘I’d be completely crazy,’ he said miserably, ‘if I were to obey you again.’
Once again, the voice echoed in the cellar’s void, telling him to go to see Zawi, and so on.
‘If it’s so important to you,’ he pleaded, ‘then why don’t you do it yourself? You’re much stronger, and I’m just a poor wretch a thousand times over.’
Brooking no argument, the voice insistently repeated its blunt instruction.
The Son of the Quarter jumped to his feet, unable to bear his own impotence. He felt a new burst of courage and resolve, as though he had downed a whole bottle of wine. Everyone was astounded when they saw him coming, and Zawi glared at him as he pushed away the narguileh pipe. People spending the evening in the café were transfixed by the man with only one gallabiya.
‘Go away, and there won’t be any trouble,’ the Head of the Quarter warned.
However, the Son of the Quarter still shouted his message at Zawi:
‘The voice tells you to give back every single illicit penny you owe to the people who deserve it.’
Zawi pounced on him, pummelling his face and kicking his body until he fell to the ground, writhing and moaning as blood poured from his nose and mouth.
Then something happened that was a rare event in the quarter. The people who were sitting stood up, and others watching came over to prevent the Son of the Quarter from being hurt further. In the scramble, they grew more and more angry and found themselves engaged in a bloody battle.
As the mosque Imam described it, it was indeed a black night. The place was filled with furious people, blood flowed and Zawi fell just as the Son of the Quarter had before. The Head of the Quarter, amazed at the sheer number of people wounded, stood up to restore order.
‘What an incredible night!’ the Head of the Quarter said to the Imam. ‘Even stranger than the story of the demons in the old fort.’
NABQA IN THE OLD FORT
Nabqa was the last son of Adam, the water-seller. He fathered him after nine others had died in the great plague. He pledged his son to the service of the local mosque, if God should allow him to live. He fulfilled that pledge by handing over his son to the mosque’s Imam when he was seven years old.
‘Service in God’s own house is the best kind,’ he told his friends. ‘Between prayers, supplications, and studies, his heart will imbibe both light and blessing.’
Nabqa spent most of his time in the mosque, much less in his own home or with the boys in the quarter. The Imam was very pleased with him and praised both his energy and his reliability. He was now almost ten years old, but at that time he suffered the death of both his parents. He was known for being particularly fond of the old fort over the cellar.
‘When is the fort inside the cellar open?’ he would ask anyone who happened to pass by.
‘It’s usually open once a year,’ would be the almost universal response, ‘when the archaeologists come. But now it’s turned into a haven for demons.’
When Nabqa was ten years old, the Imam allowed him to visit his parents’ grave.
‘It’s not the season for visiting graves,’ he told the boy.
But the boy insisted, using as an excuse a dream he had had. He went, but did not return as expected; he was away for three whole days. The Imam became alarmed and assumed that the boy had chosen a new path for his life; either that, or else something had happened to him. He told the Head of the Quarter about his worries, and the Sheikh sent a guard to look for the boy. But, just a few hours before the end of the third day, he saw the boy coming back from the cellar. He had a serene expression his face that did not match his egregious misbehaviour.
‘Where have you been?’ the Imam asked him angrily.
‘I was a guest of the departed,’ he responded calmly. ‘They’ve filled me with knowledge and strength.’
‘Have you gone mad, Nabqa?’ the Imam asked him, looking baffled. ‘Or has a demon affected you?’
‘God’s farewell to you! I’m leaving.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘It’s not right for me to be your servant any more, nor for you to be my master.’
‘God’s curse on you!’ the Imam shouted.
From that moment on the quarter learned the other side of Nabqa, the water-seller’s son.
People were shocked by how brazen his behaviour had become, something none of them expected of a boy of his young age or even a madman. He began to confront important people from the quarter and usually addressed them with phrases like:
‘You should be ashamed of yourself!’
‘How could you let yourself do that?’
‘Are you still feigning self-respect?’
After opening gambits such as these, he would go on to mention some moral or financial scandal. The result would be angry shouting. People wondered where the boy managed to get hold of these secrets. Their negative reactions took all possible forms: there were intrigues and enmities, and panic spread far and wide. There was good reason to say that the quarter had been struck by a demon. The entire affair was hard on the mosque’s Imam; he considered himself somehow responsible for what was happening. The widespread negative reaction affected him too, and he decided to go to see Nabqa.
‘Go back to your mosque!’ he shouted.
‘You go back to your mosque!’ the boy yelled even louder. ‘I don’t have one anymore.’
The Imam accused the boy of heresy. He pounced on him, fully intending to use force. However, the boy was able to push him off, using a new power acquired from the unknown. Losing his balance, the Imam staggered backwards, quivering with fright. The Head of the Quarter came rushing over.
‘Get to the quarter fast,’ the Imam said, ‘before it loses its reputation for ever.’
‘I’ve never uttered a false word,’ the boy insisted.
‘The law must be respected,’ the Head of the Quarter shouted back.
‘You don’t respect yourself,’ the boy replied, working himself into a frenzy. ‘So how can you ask people to respect the law?’
That made the Head of the Quarter furious, and he attacked the boy with his cane. He did it lightly at first, but the boy paid no attention and did not move. When he started hitting him harder, the boy just stood there calmly while everyone watched in dismay. It looked as if the boy was only getting stronger and more able to absorb the blows. Something other-worldly was happening right in front of them all.
Afterwards, the things I heard about Nabqa’s story were fragmented and exaggerated accounts of his strange behaviour. There was one confused account about a fight that broke out in the quarter, involving all sorts of people. It lasted all day, only fizzling out in the evening when waves of darkness descended. People said that Nabqa was arrested, and that people trampled on him. However, grave-dwellers were able to confirm that he was still alive. They had seen him wandering around the area beyond the cellar. With every step he took, he grew bigger and bigger until he took up so much space that they could no longer see his head as it extended into the heavens.
And still today, people believe Nabqa is living in the old fort.
THE SCREAM
One day at noontime, there was a resounding scream, one with blood-curdling depths, as if a body were being ripped apart. The screaming continued, so people rushed towards Sitt Adliya’s house. There was a lot of noise, everyone was shouting; a scene of chaotic activity. However, the noise did not last for long; it gradually died down, then stopped altogether. Everything went quiet, and silence prevailed. A voice went up announcing the end. The news spread like wildfire: Kamila, the lovely girl who had been divorced at noontime that very day, had poured petrol over her clothes and set fire to herself.
‘God damn Satan the accursed,’ said Umm Ulwan, neighbour of Sitt Adliya, the aunt of the girl who had immolated herself. ‘Who would believe what we’ve just seen? Who could believe that Kamila would set fire to herself? What a lovely girl she was! Ever since she was ten years old, she always did everything that was asked of her. A bride just a few months on from her wedding night… Dear Kamila, was there ever a woman more deserving of life than you?’
Sitt Adliya, the girl’s aunt, dried her tears.
‘Your screams and the image of your face disfigured by fire are seared into my heart,’ she said, ‘May God avenge you on Zaid al-F iqi, the despicable tyrant whose heart has turned to stone. What can this innocent girl have done to make him break her heart and divorce her? God will deal with you, Zaid!’
When these words reached Boss Zaid al-F iqi, he said nothing. Truth to tell, the news of the girl’s suicide had hit him and his heart very hard and addled his thinking. For a few moments, he grew weary of life and despised it. But then he pushed such sorrows away.
‘What was I supposed to do,’ he asked himself, ‘once I found out what everyone already knew?’ Everyone in the quarter knew that his wife’s mother owned a brothel in the district. She had not in fact married a Moroccan, as her sister, Sitt Adliya, had announced, and gone away with him, leaving her daughter, Kamila, for her aunt to look after. ‘Relatives asked questions about the story, and friends advised me to watch out for my reputation and avoid any damage to my business. Every time I spoke to someone about the family involved in the marriage, they would say that they knew absolutely nothing.’
‘We’re respectable people,’ Sitt Adliya told him. ‘We haven’t deceived you.’
Kamila herself was thunderstruck. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she cried. ‘My mother’s a decent woman. God protect us all from liars!’
The Quarter Page 3