Midaq Alley, Page 2

  Two shops, however, that of Uncle Kamil, the sweets seller, to the right of the alley entrance and the barbershop on the left, remain open until shortly after sunset. It is Uncle Kamil’s habit, even his right, to place a chair on the threshold of his shop and drop off to sleep with a fly whisk resting in his lap. He will remain there until customers either call out to him or Abbas, the barber, teasingly wakes him. He is a hulk of a man, his cloak revealing legs like tree trunks and his behind large and rounded like the dome of a mosque, its central portion resting on the chair and the remainder spilling over the sides. He has a belly like a barrel, great projecting breasts, and he seems scarcely to have any neck at all. Between his shoulders lies his rounded face, so puffed and blood-flecked that his breathing makes its furrows disappear. Consequently, scarcely a single line can be seen on the surface and he seems to have neither nose nor eyes. His head topping all this is small, bald, and no different in color from his pale yet florid skin. He is always panting and out of breath, as if he has just run a race, and he can scarcely complete the sale of a sweet before he is overcome by a desire for sleep. People are always telling him he will die suddenly because of the masses of fat pressing round his heart. He always agrees with them. But how will death harm him when his life is merely a prolonged sleep?

  The barbershop, although small, is considered in the alley to be rather special. It has a mirror and an armchair, as well as the usual instruments of a barber. The barber is a man of medium height, pallid complexion, and slightly heavy build. His eyes project slightly and his wavy hair is yellowish, despite the brown color of his skin. He wears a suit and never goes without an apron; perhaps in imitation of more fashionable hairdressers.

  These two individuals remain in their shops while the large company office next to the barber closes its doors and its employees go home. The last to leave is its owner, Salim Alwan. He struts off, dressed in his flowing robe and cloak, and goes to the carriage waiting for him at the street’s entrance. He climbs in sedately and fills the seat with his well-built person, his large Circassian mustaches standing out before him. The driver kicks the bell with his foot and it rings out loudly. The carriage, drawn by one horse, moves off toward Ghouriya on its way to Hilmiya.

  The two houses at the end of the street have closed their shutters against the cold, and lantern light shines through their cracks. Midaq Alley would be completely silent now were it not for Kirsha’s café; light streaming from its electric lamps, their wires covered with flies.

  The café is beginning to fill with customers. It is a square room, somewhat dilapidated. However, in spite of its dinginess, its walls are covered with arabesques. The only things which suggest a past glory are its extreme age and a few couches placed here and there. In the café entrance a workman is setting up a secondhand radio on a wall. A few men are scattered about on the couches smoking and drinking tea.

  Not far from the entrance, on a couch, sits a man in his fifties dressed in a cloak with sleeves, wearing a necktie usually worn by those who affect Western dress. On his nose perches a pair of expensive-looking gold-rimmed spectacles. He has removed his wooden sandals and left them lying near his feet. He sits as stiffly as a statue, as silent as a corpse. He looks neither to the right nor to the left, as though lost in a world all his own.

  A senile old man is now approaching the café. He is so old that the passing of time has left him with not a single sound limb. A boy leads him by his left hand and under his right arm he carries a two-stringed fiddle and a book. The old man greets all those present and makes his way to the couch in the middle of the room. He climbs up with the help of the boy, who sits beside him. He places the instrument and the book between them and looks hard into the faces of the men present, as though searching for their reaction to his coming there. His dull and inflamed eyes, filled with expectation and apprehension, settle on the café’s young waiter, Sanker. Having sat patiently waiting for some time and having observed the youth’s studied disregard for himself, he breaks his silence, saying thickly, “Coffee, Sanker.”

  The youth faces slightly toward him and after a slight hesitation turns his back on him again without saying a word, completely disregarding the request. The old man realizes the youth will go on ignoring him and, indeed, he expected nothing more. Just then help came, as though from the heavens, with the entry of someone who heard the old man’s shout and saw the youth ignore him. The newcomer shouted imperiously to the waiter, “Bring the poet’s coffee, lad!”

  The old poet gazed gratefully at the newcomer and said somewhat sadly, “Thanks be to God, Dr. Booshy.”

  The “doctor” greeted him and sat down beside him. Dressed incongruously in a cloak, a skullcap, and wooden clogs, he was a dentist who learned his profession from life, having had no medical or any other schooling. Dr. Booshy began his professional life as assistant to a dentist in the Gamaliya district. He learned by observing the dentist’s skill and so became proficient himself. He was well known for the effectiveness of his prescriptions, although he generally preferred extraction as the best cure! His roving dental surgery would no doubt have been considered unbearably painful were it not for the fact that his fees were so low. He charged one piaster for the poor and two for the rich (the rich of Midaq Alley, of course!). If there were serious loss of blood, as frequently happened, he generally considered it the work of God. He relied on God, too, to prevent the blood from flowing! Moreover, he had made a set of gold teeth for Kirsha, the café owner, for only two guineas. In Midaq Alley and the surrounding area, he was addressed as “doctor.” He was, perhaps, the very first doctor to receive his title from his patients.

  Sanker brought the coffee for the poet, as the “doctor” requested. The old man raised the cup to his lips, blowing into it to cool the drink. He then sipped it and continued to do so until it was finished. He placed the cup to one side and only then recalled the ill-mannered behavior of the waiter toward him. Gazing at the youth with apparent disdain, he muttered indignantly, “Ill-mannered fellow…”

  He picked up his instrument and began to pluck its strings, avoiding the angry looks Sanker gave him. He played a few introductory notes just as the café had heard him play every evening for twenty years or more. His frail body swayed in time with the music. Then he cleared his throat, spat, and said, “In the name of God.” Crying out in his harsh-sounding voice, he continued: “We are going to begin today by saying a prayer for the Prophet. An Arab Prophet, the chosen son of the people of Adnan. Abu Saada, the Zanaty, says that…”

  He was interrupted by someone who entered at that point and said roughly, “Shut up! Don’t say a single word more!”

  The old man lifted his failing eyes from his instrument and saw the sleepy, gloomy eyes of Kirsha, the tall, thin, dark-faced café owner, looking down at him. He stared at him glumly and hesitated a moment as though unable to believe his ears. Trying to ignore Kirsha’s unpleasantness, he began reciting again, “Abu Saada, the Zanaty, says that…”

  The café owner shouted in angry exasperation, “Are you going to force your recitations on us? That’s the end—the end! Didn’t I warn you last week?”

  A look of disappointment came into the poet’s face and he commented critically, “I can see you have been living fast lately. Can’t you take it out on someone else?”

  Even more exasperated, Kirsha shouted again, “I know what I said and what I want, you imbecile. Do you think I am going to allow you to perform in my café if you are going to slander me with your vile tongue?”

  The old poet sweetened his tone a little as he tried to soothe the angry man and said, “This is my café too. Haven’t I been reciting here for the last twenty years?”

  The café owner took his usual seat behind the till and replied, “We know all the stories you tell by heart and we don’t need to run through them again. People today don’t want a poet. They keep asking me for a radio and there’s one over there being installed now. So go away and leave us alone and may God provide for y
ou…”

  The old man’s face clouded and he remembered sadly that Kirsha’s café was the only one left to him and, indeed, his last source of livelihood and one which had served him well. Only the day before, the Castle café had sent him away. Old as he was, and now with his living cut off, what was he to do with his life? What was the point of teaching his poor son this profession when it had died like this? What could the future hold for him and how could he provide for his son? A feeling of despair seized him and increased in intensity when he saw the look of regretful determination on Kirsha’s face. The old man pleaded, “Slowly, slowly, Mr. Kirsha. Public reciters still have an appeal which won’t disappear. The radio will never replace us.”

  Firmly and decisively, however, the café owner replied, “That is what you say, but it is not what my customers say and you are not going to ruin my business. Everything has changed!”

  In despair, the old man insisted, “Haven’t people listened to these stories without being bored since the days of the Prophet, peace be upon him?”

  Kirsha brought his hand down hard on the till and shouted, “I said everything has changed!”

  At this the absentminded and statuesque man wearing the gold-rimmed spectacles and the necktie moved for the first time. He turned his gaze to the café’s roof and sighed so deeply that his friends almost expected pieces of flesh to come up with the passage of air. In a dreamy tone, he said, “Yes, everything has changed. Yes, indeed, everything has changed, my lady. Everything has changed except my heart and it still loves the people of the house of Amir.”

  He lowered his head slowly, moving it to the left and to the right as he did so, with movements gradually decreasing in extent until he at last returned to his previous immobile position. Once again he sank into oblivion. None of those present, accustomed as they were to his peculiarities, had so much as turned toward him, with the exception of the old reciter who looked at him and said appealingly, “Sheikh Darwish, does this please you?”

  The other man remained, however, as though lost to the world and said nothing. Just then another person arrived who was greeted with looks of admiration and affection, and they all responded enthusiastically to his greeting.

  Radwan Hussainy was a man of impressive appearance, both broad and tall, a flowing black cloak covering his ample form, his face large and whitish with tinges of red. He wore a reddish-colored beard. His forehead seemed to shine with light and its surface gleamed with happiness, tolerance, and deep faith. He walked slowly, with his head slightly bent, and a smile on his lips announced his love for both people and life.

  He chose a seat next to the poet’s sofa and, as soon as he did so, the old man began to complain to him. Radwan Hussainy listened good-naturedly, although he knew well what the trouble was. Indeed, on a number of occasions he had tried to dissuade the café owner, Kirsha, from his intention to dispense with the reciter but he had always been unsuccessful. When the old man finished his complaint, Hussainy did what he could to console him and promised to help him find a job for the poet’s son. He then generously placed some coins in his hand and whispered in his ear, “We are all sons of Adam. If poverty descends on you then seek help from your brother. Man’s provider is God and it is to God that any excess is due.”

  As he said this, his fine face was filled with even greater radiance, just as all noble men, doing the good they love, become happier and more handsome through their actions. He had always taken care that not a single day should pass without doing some good deed or receiving in his home some abused or unfortunate person. From his love of goodness and his generosity he appeared to be richly endowed with wealth and property, but the fact was that he owned nothing except the house on the right hand side of Midaq Alley and a few acres of land in Marj. The people who lived in his house—Kirsha on the third floor, and Uncle Kamil and Abbas, the barber, on the first—had found him a kind and fair landlord. He had ignored the rights the special military edict had given him to raise the rent of first-floor tenants, out of compassion for the occupants of modest means. He was, in fact, in all his actions wherever he went, a man of compassion and sympathy.

  His life, especially in its earlier stages, had been filled with disappointment and pain. The period he had spent studying at the University of al-Azhar had ended in failure. He had spent a considerable portion of his life within its cloisters and yet had not succeeded in obtaining a degree. Besides, he had been afflicted with the loss of his children and now none remained, although he had had several. He had tasted the bitterness of disappointment so much that his heart almost overflowed with a despair that nearly choked him…

  His faith rescued him from the gloom of his sorrows to the light of love, and his heart now no longer held grief or anxiety. He was filled with an all-embracing love, goodness, and wonderful patience. He stepped lightly over the sorrows of the world, his heart soaring heavenward as he embraced everyone with his love.

  As time brought him added tragedies, so had he increased in his patience and love. One day people saw him laying one of his sons in his last resting place while he recited the Qur’an, his face filled with happiness. They gathered around him comforting and consoling him, but he had only smiled and, pointing to the sky, said, “He gave and He has taken back; all things are at His command and all things belong to Him. It would be blasphemous to sorrow.”

  Thus he gave consolation to others. So it was that Dr. Booshy once said, “If you are sick, then go to Mr. Hussainy for a cure. If you are despairing, then gaze at the light of his innocence to teach you hope. If you are sorrowing, then listen to him and he will make you happy again.” His face was a true picture of his inner self; he was the picture of grace in its most radiant form. As for the poet, he was already somewhat cheered and consoled. He left the couch, the boy following him carrying the fiddle and the book. The old man heartily shook Radwan Hussainy’s hand and said goodbye to the other men in the café, pretending to ignore its owner, Kirsha. He threw a scornful look at the radio which the workmen had almost finished installing, gave his hand to the lad and drew him outside. They walked out of sight.

  Life stirred once again in Sheikh Darwish and he turned his head toward the direction in which they had disappeared, mumbling, “The poet has gone and the radio has come. This is the way of God in His creation. Long ago it was told in tarikh, which in English means ‘history’ and it is spelled h-i-s-t-o-r-y.”

  Before he finished spelling out the word, Kamil and Abbas arrived, having just closed their shops. Abbas came first; he had washed his face and combed his fair hair. Uncle Kamil followed, swaying like a palanquin, picking his feet up laboriously and deliberately as he walked. They greeted the company present, sat down and ordered tea. They no sooner arrived before they filled the air with gossip.

  Abbas spoke first. “Listen, everyone. My friend Uncle Kamil here has been complaining to me that he is likely to die any minute and, if he does, he won’t have enough money to be properly buried.”

  One of the men present muttered sarcastically, “All’s well with Muhammad’s people!”

  Some of the others commented that Uncle Kamil’s profits from his sales of sweets would probably suffice to bury an entire nation. Dr. Booshy laughed and addressed Uncle Kamil. “Are you still harping on dying? By God, you’ll probably bury the lot of us with your own hands!”

  Uncle Kamil, his voice high-pitched and innocent as a child’s, replied, “Be careful what you say and put your trust in God, my friend, I am a poor man…”

  Abbas continued: “I was upset by what Uncle Kamil told me. After all, his sweets have done us a lot of good and that can’t be denied. So I have bought him a nice shroud as a precaution and put it away in a safe place until the inevitable time comes.” He turned to Uncle Kamil and went on: “This is a secret I have been keeping from you deliberately. Now you can see I have made it known to everyone here, so that they can bear witness.”

  Many of the men in the café expressed delight, trying to appear serious so th
at Uncle Kamil, who was famous for his gullibility, would believe the story. They praised the thoughtfulness and generosity of Abbas and said that what he had done was a worthy deed and one most appropriate toward the man he liked so well and with whom he shared a flat and indeed his life, just as if they were of the same flesh and blood. Even Radwan Hussainy smiled delightedly, and Uncle Kamil gazed at his friend in innocent amazement and asked, “Is it true what you said, Abbas?”

  Dr. Booshy replied for him, saying, “Don’t doubt it for a minute, Uncle Kamil. I can vouch for what your friend says and I have seen the shroud with my own eyes. It’s a very fine one indeed and I would be delighted to have one just like it.”

  Sheikh Darwish moved for the third time and said, “Good luck to you! Shrouds are the veils of the afterlife. Enjoy your shroud, Uncle Kamil, before it enjoys you! You will be wholesome food for the worms. The reptiles will feed off your tender flesh as though it were a sweet. Why, the worms will grow so fat they will be like dafaadi. The meaning of this word in English is ‘frogs’ and it is spelled f-r-o-g-s.”

  Uncle Kamil believed all now and he asked Abbas what type of shroud it was, its color and size. Then he invoked a long blessing on his friend, smiled broadly, and gave praise to God. Just then the voice of a young man entering from the street was heard to say, “Good evening.”

  He passed by on his way to Radwan Hussainy’s house. Hussain Kirsha was the son of the café owner. He was in his twenties and had the near-black skin of his father. Hussain was slight of build, however, and his delicate features indicated his youth, fitness, and vitality. Dressed in a blue woolen shirt, khaki trousers, a hat, and heavy boots, he had the satisfied, well-off look of all those who worked with the British Army. This was the usual time for him to return home from the camp. Many men in the café stared after him in both admiration and envy. His friend Abbas invited him into the café but he thanked him and moved on.