The Quarter

by Naguib Mahfouz

  ‘What could I do? When my own mother confirmed that they had all lied and deceived me in their desire to get hold of my money, I was convinced. For the sake of my own honour I was forced to get angry, so I roared like a wild animal and divorced my wife. And now she’s committed suicide ... She was certainly telling the truth. She knew absolutely nothing about her mother’s way of life. Hassan Abu al-Makarim, that virtuous sheikh, was the only one aware of that secret life. Everything goes back to God.’

  It is true that Sheikh Abu al-Makarim, the Arabic language teacher, was the one who had sneaked the information into the quarter and worked to see that it reached Zaid al-F iqi, the blind husband. It had not been an easy decision to make, and the sheikh only proceeded after a lengthy dialogue with his heart and conscience. It is my belief that, in making this decision, he was defending the truth and basing his judgment on principles far removed from his own heart and desires. When he heard about the girl’s suicide, he was stunned, so stunned that it tore him from his roots. He panicked, as though being pursued.

  ‘How can it be,’ he asked himself, ‘that the very worst crime committed by despair in this whole affair was setting fire to that lovely face?’

  Sheikh Abu al-Makarim’s distress triggered memories that now emerged from their hiding-places.

  The first day he had ever set eyes on her, she was accompanying her aunt on a visit to Sitt Umm Hanafi, who owned the house in which he was living. Umm Hanafi had noticed how his demeanour changed and was well aware of his inherent simplicity and innocence.

  ‘Did you like Kamila?’ she asked him once.

  ‘She’s a precious angel!’ he replied with a laugh.

  ‘How lucky is the person,’ she said, ‘who can bring two people together in marriage.’

  But he asked her to wait until he felt ready.

  Afterwards she passed his name on to Sitt Adliya, Kamila’s aunt. It seemed that things would take their normal course.

  At this point he recalled that people had advised him to do some checking to find out all the details. He postponed the actual engagement for a while. While they were all waiting, Sheikh Zaid al-F iqi, boasting all the temptations of wealth and luxury, presented himself to Sitt Adliya. So, the hesitant sheikh was abandoned and Kamila was married to Zaid al-F iqi.

  Sheikh Abu al-Makarim was very sad; the world darkened before him. He felt utterly humiliated, his traditional sense of dignity was insulted.

  ‘They sold me off,’ he told Umm Hanafi, ‘as though I was worth nothing.’

  ‘You waited too long,’ she replied, by way of consolation. ‘Everything is fated.’

  It was at this point that the chief sweeper of the quarter told him the shocking details about Kamila’s mother. Along with shock came another sensation, but he rejected it out of hand. He pondered what to do.

  ‘Let the verdict be based on the truth and decent morals,’ he told himself. ‘Whatever has happened has happened and let the consequences be what they may.’

  Abu al-Makarim was shocked by the suicide and would have liked to run away. But where would he go? No sooner did he escape one personal hell than he fell into another. Eventually he found some relief in imitating the tortured screams that had emerged from the lovely girl’s throat.

  Umm Hanafi testified that the sheikh had gone mad long before everyone else realised it.

  NAMLA’S PROPHESY

  On the blessed night of the Prophet’s birthday, Haraq left the cellar, prodding the ground with his cane.

  ‘Charity for God, you charitable folk!’ he shouted in a weak but determined tone.

  On his way to the square, Namla, the local madman, stopped him by the fountain.

  ‘Good news, Haraq,’ the madman yelled in a tone of voice used by those trained to speak up first.

  ‘On this joyous night,’ the beggar replied, ‘release me from your tongue!’

  ‘No, it’s good news for a hero,’ the madman insisted. ‘People will surround you, and rulers will come to see you!’

  Some people heard this prophesy and had a good laugh. Even the Head of the Quarter joined in.

  ‘So now it’s Haraq’s turn,’ he whispered, ‘to ascend the ruler’s throne!’

  Later that same night, Haraq fell down dead in a corner that was teeming with people celebrating. Was he hit by accident, or crushed by the crowd? God alone knows.

  People clustered around the dead body, but then the authorities showed up, one after another: the police officer, the chief prosecutor, and the official doctor.

  The Head of the Quarter rubbed his hands together.

  ‘You’re a genuine saint, Namla,’ he said. ‘You gave your prophecy and it came true. The miracle happened.’

  BAD LUCK

  Three times Hassan Dahshan married girls from quarter families, and each time the wife died before giving birth to the baby inside her. Afterwards Hassan was known as ‘Unlucky Hassan.’ When he became engaged to a fourth girl, who died while they were still betrothed, the label stuck and became even more widely used. He was assailed by a peculiar feeling, one that told him to run away, to retreat from the world and become an ascetic. His family advised him not to give up and encouraged him to move beyond his bad luck.

  ‘All’s well,’ they told him, ‘that ends well!’

  He responded to their suggestion and made one or two more attempts, but all doors were firmly closed against him. In spite of his family’s status and his own wealth, people considered him the very Angel of Death. He withdrew and lived alone, hating life itself, friendless, and practising his trade without enthusiasm.

  At that same time, Sunbula joined the household as a personal servant to his mother, whose energy and movement had been impaired by old age. Sunbula was approaching puberty, but she was also filthy and utterly destitute. Hassan’s mother took pity on the girl after she lost her mother, the pickled vegetable seller, who herself had been the object of Hassan’s mother’s sympathy. As was her custom with female servants, she trained her to be tidy and would use her cane to set her straight, her aim being to make her acceptable. There was no way of turning a beanpole into a beautiful bride, and yet life flowed through the girl and showed its true colours. She learned how to comb her hair and started to learn more important things.

  Even though she was neither beautiful nor alluring, Unlucky Hassan paid her close attention; he felt a strange warmth emerging from her. When he gestured to her, she responded without hesitation. He may have been eager in his first approach, but he felt repulsed as he left. Looking back over what he had suffered, the sheer misery of it all, he was appalled by this feeling, which only continued and intensified.

  ‘No beauty,’ he told himself, ‘no money, and no morals.’

  For long intervals their relationship continued as it was, but, as time went by, he noticed that she was changing. She no longer wore such a vacant expression, and her eyes looked sad; it was as if she now understood why he would approach her but then retreat in disgust. He felt as though he were revealing himself in front of her, and that made him sad. When he gestured to her, she would not respond, but instead took refuge in the old woman’s room.

  ‘So,’ he told himself, ‘even vermin have their pride!’

  Her rejection infuriated him.

  He realised that, over time, his mother had taught her a lot. He was amazed to learn that she had now begun to pray and to fast.

  Once he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her forcibly towards him.

  ‘I’ve enough misery to deal with,’ she told him as she slipped from his grasp.

  He had the feeling that what she had just said was true about both of them.

  ‘So have I,’ he told her. ‘Each of us needs the other.’

  SHAIKHUN

  Shaikhun came back to the quarter after an absence so long he had been forgotten. Nothing was known about his absence, and all news about him had been severed. His family had all died, except for an old man who was not even conscious of his surroundings. Shaikhun
was full of confidence, looking around him and offering inspiring words of blessing.

  ‘When did he become a saint?’ people asked in amazement. ‘Someone favoured by God?’

  He attracted people’s attention, spreading joy to many hearts. The quarter’s elite regarded him cautiously and with no particular interest, but they still refused to interfere.

  Shaikhun now expanded his activities, venturing into the unknown, curing illnesses and solving the problems of the world’s sufferers. On market day, he placed himself by the animal trough.

  ‘Before the sun sets tomorrow,’ he shouted at the top of his voice, ‘everyone will come to terms with their anxieties.’

  By late afternoon, the quarter was crowded with people seeking cures. Their feelings were as one.

  ‘This man’s the son of an honest man.’

  ‘Something unprecedented is sure to happen.’

  Shaikhun arrived from the café, surrounded by a galaxy of admirers.

  He looked around at the crowd, unperturbed by its size.

  He raised his hand and silence fell.

  ‘Hear a wonderful word,’ he said, ‘before a wonderful event.’

  They all rejoiced and praised God before the silence of anticipation and longing descended.

  A group of men now broke through the throng, led by the Head of the Quarter. When they reached the spot where Shaikhun was standing, two of them grabbed him. Between them, they put on him the gallabiyah for runaway lunatics.

  ‘You really are a tiresome man!’ said the Head of the Quarter.

  THE ARROW

  In spite of everything I have seen and heard, I know of no parallel to the period in our quarter’s life that has become known as ‘the black period.’ It was a strange time, one that our quarter had not experienced before, nor has it since. The best description of it may well be what Umm Fahim, the clothes presser, had to say, namely that she had been touched by seven devils. I’ll never forget the day I asked a friend of mine with more experience of life:

  ‘What’s going on beneath our very eyes?’

  ‘It’s obvious,’ he replied regretfully, ‘that the times people are living through get sick and die just like all the rest of God’s creatures.’

  What was odd was that it was not something awful that no one knew about, but that no one felt ashamed to openly discuss its evil effects. I heard Umm Basima, the midwife, talk about it sarcastically:

  ‘We’ll be seeing fornicators naked in the sunshine, and robbers committing theft with policemen watching.’

  Every day we simply gave up, letting the tide sweep us away. Whenever we felt regretful, we would hastily invoke memories of our wonderful past. The Head of the Quarter kept up his efforts, or at least that was the impression he gave. He would leave his shop and crisscross the quarter from the cellar to the square.

  ‘No offender will escape the law!’ he would shout whenever the occasion permitted.

  The police guard did not reduce his night watch, and the mosque Imam started chasing shadows with homilies, proverbs and tales of pious ancestors.

  But then the death of Boss Zain al-Barak happened, fanning the flames of alarm and curiosity. It was market day, or ‘a day for pillage and plunder’ as everyone called it. The place was heaving with bargains, flirtations and curses. Boss Zain al-Baraka came strutting past on his grey donkey, with his servant walking ahead shouting: ‘Make way, you! Here’s Boss Zain al-Baraka!’

  In front of the café the Boss let out a scream that augured ill. He tried to dismount but failed. Twisting around, he collapsed on to the saddle. People came rushing over and carried him to the café’s nearest bench, drops of blood marking his course. The Head of the Quarter came hurrying to examine the Boss. He wept over him, making no sound, and then stood up straight.

  ‘The divine secret has left him,’ he said forlornly. ‘Boss Baraka is dead.’

  Even though everyone agreed that the Boss was nasty, the majesty of death provoked feelings of humility and awe in the people’s hearts. The Head of the Quarter stared at them.

  ‘No one went near him,’ more than one voice opined.

  ‘The police, chief prosecutor, and official doctor are going to go crazy,’ he said angrily.

  The most amazing thing the initial investigation showed was that the Boss had been shot through the heart with an arrow. Most people did not even know what was meant by the word ‘arrow.’ There was a good deal of chatter before people understood.

  ‘Arrows are fired from a bow,’ the Head of the Quarter explained. ‘The person with the bow can’t stand very far away. Many of you must have seen the culprit committing his crime.’

  However, with solemn oaths they all claimed they had not seen anyone.

  ‘I’m well aware,’ said the Head of the Quarter angrily, ‘that Zain al-Baraka was not liked by many people…’

  ‘They’re far too many to count,’ a voice stated, ‘but we can only testify to what we know.’

  The sheikh went all around the place, checking on houses that overlooked the site, but he did not come across anything suspicious.

  ‘Who on earth would take an arrow out of history’s quiver,’ he kept asking himself, ‘and why?’

  The search went on for several days, but without success. All that was clear was the apathy and ill will people bore each other and their lack of confidence in the authorities and the law. When those in touch with the visible world were unable to quench the thirst for truth that people were feeling, those connected to the unseen volunteered to reveal the unknown.

  ‘Don’t forget the old fort,’ said Sheikh Ramadan, saint of God. People do not forget their old fort, which was situated above the cellar.

  ‘In the old days,’ Sheikh Ramadan went on, ‘the place was teeming with people carrying bows and arrows. It’s not impossible for some power to have sent one of their spirits to defend our wretched quarter.’ The idea spread and was on everyone’s tongue. Just then, Umm Basima, the midwife, confirmed that when she was returning home after delivering a baby beyond the cellar, she had seen a shadow slinking along the wall by the fort.

  The Head of the Quarter had the idea that some criminals might be using the fort as a hiding-place. He recruited some archaeologists and police to go with him. They entered the fort through the gate and searched the whole place. All they found were rocks and spiders.

  They announced their findings loud and clear, and then warned people not to believe superstitions.

  People looked at each other.

  ‘Are we supposed to believe this lot,’ they asked in disbelief, ‘and disbelieve Sheikh Ramadan, saint of God, and the good lady, Sitt Basima?’

  THE WHISPER OF THE STARS

  The spray from the hose-wagon splashed his skinny bare feet as he ran behind it, shrieking and whooping. His grandmother managed to grab him by the public fountain and clasp him in her arms.

  ‘You keep chasing things that will hurt you,’ she said.

  While she was pronouncing ‘In the name of God’ over his head, he kept protesting loudly. The Head of the Quarter noticed her and came over.

  ‘Sitt Farga,’ he told her, ‘keep him away from things that will really hurt him.’

  ‘Evil tongues never show us any mercy,’ she replied angrily.

  ‘But in your house he’d have the best possible education.’

  ‘People’s tongues will never show any mercy. One day, he’s bound to find out about the tragedy of his mother and father.’

  ‘Our quarter will never change its ways,’ he replied sadly. ‘So why don’t you take him somewhere else, where there’s no past to deal with?’

  The woman closed her bleary eyes. ‘Where and how could we live so far away from our quarter?’

  ‘Well then, Sitt Farga,’ the Head of the Quarter said, ‘it’s just a matter of fate!’

  ‘Yes indeed, by our Lord, merciful and compassionate!’

  Sheikh Bashir emerged from the mosque to get some fresh air. Farga spotted him and wa
lked over, bringing her furious grandson with her.

  ‘Shaikh Bashir,’ she said, ‘take my grandson’s skullcap and tell me about his future.’

  ‘I can never forget his father’s many virtues,’ the sheikh replied, ‘nor my fond memories of him. I’m always ready to help you, Sitt Farga.’

  He sniffed the skull-cap and wiped his hands on the boy’s head.

  ‘I see only clouds,’ he said.

  ‘What does that mean?’ she asked in alarm.

  ‘I see only clouds. There’s no more to say.’

  ‘Yes there is, but you don’t want to upset me.’

  ‘Certainly not! Even so, you’re aware of the dangers. You should be careful.’

  Grandmother and grandson now walked away, although she was not happy.

  The Head of the Quarter turned to Sheikh Bashir.

  ‘What harm would it have done,’ he asked, ‘to tell her something comforting?’

  ‘Maybe we can be selective in what we pass on,’ he replied, ‘but we can’t tell lies. That’s exactly what I told Qadri, the boy’s late father, but he ignored my advice. Then what happened happened.’

  The Head of the Quarter stared at him anxiously.

  ‘How was that?’ he asked.

  ‘Do you remember one afternoon,’ Sheikh Bashir told him, ‘when the local Rebec poet showed up, so young and handsome, and started singing:

  ‘Lovers have all left their beds …’

  ‘The whole quarter gave him a rousing welcome, and soon the owner of the local café invited him to perform at his soirées, where he generated an all-encompassing rapture that seized everyone’s hearts. The man kept singing, and the quarter was both dazzled and delighted. But then I sensed a disturbance in my private world. I waited until I saw Boss Qadri approaching. I blocked his path.

  ‘The falcon will pounce on the chicken,’ I told him.

  ‘He paid no attention to what I said. He assumed I was asking him for money. With his usual generosity he gave me something.’

  ‘Didn’t he ask you what you meant?’ the Head of the Quarter asked.