The three of them headed back into the basement. Arafa’s feet could barely carry him. He fell on the sofa.
“The man I killed was a miserable-looking black servant. He was sleeping in the side room.”
Neither of them said a word. They buried their gazes in the floor to avoid his wild eyes.
“I can see you don’t believe me! I swear to you both, I never even went near his bed.”
Hanash hesitated for long moments, but sensed that talking was better than silence, so he spoke cautiously. “Maybe you didn’t see his face clearly, you were so surprised?”
“Never!” shouted Arafa miserably. “You weren’t with me.”
“Lower your voice,” said Awatif, frightened.
He left them, hurrying into the back room, where he sat in the dark, shaking with fear. What insanity had moved him to make that doomed excursion! Yes—doomed. The earth shook below him and leaked tragedy from its core. This eerie room was the only hope he had left.
The first rays of sunlight glistened, and all the people began to gather in the alley around the mansion. The news was whispered and spread quickly, especially when the overseer made a brief visit to the mansion, after which he went home. The people said that thieves had burglarized the mansion through a tunnel they had dug underneath the rear wall, and killed a faithful servant. When Gabalawi got the news, he suffered a shock that his frail health could not withstand, not at his age; and he gave up the ghost. People’s anger was so great that its black smoke prevented them from weeping or screaming. When Awatif and Hanash told Arafa the news, he said, “That shows I was right!”
At once he remembered that he had been the cause of his death anyway, and fell back into a shamed and pained silence.
Awatif did not know what to say. “God rest his soul!” she murmured.
“He didn’t exactly die young,” observed Hanash.
“But I caused his death!” Arafa said, in the sad tone the poets used. “I’m worse than any of his other descendants, even the evil ones, and there are so many of them!”
“You went with only good intentions,” Awatif said, weeping.
“Isn’t it possible they might have evidence against us?” asked Hanash uneasily.
“Let’s get out of here!” said Awatif.
“If we did that,” Arafa said, pointing irritably at Awatif, “we’d give them the clearest proof of our crime.”
There were hostile cries from the crowded street.
“We must kill the murderer before we bury the victim!”
“This is the worst generation yet in our alley. Even the worst people respected the mansion, throughout our history—even Idris himself! We’ll be cursed until the Judgment Day!”
“The killers aren’t from our alley. How could they be?”
“We’ll get all the facts about this.”
“We’ll be cursed until the Judgment Day.”
The clamor and lamentation grew more intense, until Hanash’s nerves gave out. “How can we stay in the alley after today!”
The Al Gabal suggested burying Gabalawi in the Gabal Cemetery: they considered that they were more closely related to him than any other community, and hated the idea of him being buried in the same cemetery that held Idris and the remains of Gabalawi’s other family members. The Al Rifaa asked that he be buried in the same grave he had dug for Rifaa with his own hands. The Al Qassem said that Qassem had been Gabalawi’s finest grandson, and that his tomb was the most fitting resting place for the body of the venerable ancestor. There was almost a riot in the alley, with the body going unburied. But Qadri, the overseer, announced that Gabalawi would be buried in the mosque that had been built on the site of the old estate office in the mansion. This solution met with substantial public relief, although the people of the alley regretted that they would be deprived of the sight of his funeral, just as they had always been deprived of the sight of the man himself in life. The Al Rifaa whispered delightedly that Gabalawi would be buried in the grave he had dug for Rifaa with his own hands. No one but themselves believed that old story, and people ridiculed them about it until their protector, Agag, grew angry and nearly got into a fight with Santuri. At that point, Saadallah began to pay attention, and shouted his warning at them.
“I will smash the head of any troublemaker who tries to mar the respect of this sad day!”
Only Gabalawi’s closest servants witnessed the washing of the body. They were the ones who shrouded it and placed it on the bier, and carried the bier to the great hall that had witnessed the most momentous events of the family: his handing over the estate management to Adham, and Idris’ rebellion against that. Then the overseer and the leaders of Gabal, Rifaa and Qassem were summoned to pray over him, and after that, as the sun sloped toward the horizon, he was placed in his grave. In the evening, everyone in the alley went to the funeral tent. Arafa and Hanash went with the group from the Al Rifaa. Arafa had not slept since committing his crime, and his face was like a corpse’s. The people talked of nothing but the greatness of Gabalawi, conqueror of the desert, master of all men, the symbol of power and courage, owner of the estate and the alley, and first father of succeeding generations. Arafa looked sad, but no one could have imagined what was in his heart. The man who had attacked the mansion cared nothing for its glory; he had confirmed his ancestor’s existence only with his death! He had turned away from everyone and polluted his hands forever. He asked himself how he could ever atone for such a crime; the exploits of Gabal, Rifaa and Qassem were not enough for that. Getting rid of the overseer and the gangsters, and saving the alley from their criminality, was not enough either. Teaching everyone magic, its arts and benefits, was not enough. Only one thing would do it: to become so proficient in magic that he could bring Gabalawi back to life! Gabalawi, who had been easier to kill than to see. The passage of time would give him strength to heal the terrible wound in his heart. These gangsters and their lying tears. But oh! and oh! again! None of them had sinned as he had. The gangsters sat gloomily, covered with shame and disgrace: other alleys would say that Gabalawi had been murdered in his house while the gangsters sat around smoking hashish. That is why their stares promised revenge; why calamity and death could be read in their eyes.
When Arafa went back to the basement late that night, he drew Awatif to him and spoke with pleading despair. “Awatif, tell me the truth. Do you think I’m a criminal?”
“You are a good man,” she said tenderly. “You are the best man I ever met in my life, but you have the worst luck!”
He closed his eyes. “No one has ever been torn apart by the kind of pain I’m feeling.”
“Yes. I know that.” She kissed him with her cold lips and whispered, “I’m afraid we’re cursed.”
He looked away from her.
“I’m worried,” said Hanash. “They’ll find us out today or tomorrow. I don’t think they’ll find out everything about Gabalawi—his origins, the estate, him and his sons, his contacts with Gabal, Rifaa and Qassem—but they’ll find out about his death!”
Arafa took an uncomfortable breath. “Do you have any solution, aside from escaping?”
Hanash said nothing.
“Me, I have a plan,” said Arafa. “Though I’d like to reassure myself before putting it into action. I can’t act if I’m a criminal.”
“You’re innocent,” said Hanash wearily.
“I am going to act, Hanash. Don’t worry about us. It will distract the alley from the crime. Wonders will take place, and the most wonderful thing of all will be that Gabalawi will come back to life.”
“Oh!” said Awatif.
“Are you crazy?” Hanash asked, scowling.
“One word from our ancestor, and his good grandchildren worked until they died,” he said feverishly. “His death is stronger than his words. A good son has to do all he can. To take his place, to be him, do you understand?”