Humam was buried in the estate cemetery at Bab al-Nasr. A large crowd of Adham’s friends walked in the funeral procession, most of them fellow peddlers, some of them customers who liked his good character and fair dealing. Idris forced himself on the funeral and took part in the obsequies, and even stood with the family to receive condolences, as he was the uncle of the deceased. Adham kept a grudging silence; a horde of local bullies, gangsters, thieves, hoodlums and other dissolutes joined the funeral procession. At the burial, Idris stood over the grave and offered Adham words of comfort; Adham patiently said nothing as tears rolled down his cheeks. Umaima vented her grief unabashed, slapping her cheeks, wailing and rolling in the dust.
When the mourners left, Adham turned angrily to Idris. “Is there no end to your cruelty?”
Idris affected amazement. “What are you talking about? You poor thing.”
“I never thought you could be this cruel,” said Adham sharply, “but death is the end of everything—what is there to gloat about?”
Idris slapped his palms together in resignation. “In your grief you have forgotten your manners, but I forgive you.”
“When are you going to realize that you and I have nothing to say to one another?”
“Heaven forgive us, aren’t you my brother? That’s a bond that can never be broken.”
“Idris! You’ve done enough to me.”
“Sorrow stinks, but we’re both bereaved. You lost Humam and Qadri and I lost Hind—now the great Gabalawi has a whore for a granddaughter and a murderer grandson! Anyway, you’re better off than I am—you have other children to make up for the ones you lost.”
“You still envy me?” Adham sighed sadly.
“Idris envious of Adham?” Idris was astounded.
“If the punishment you get isn’t as horrible as the things you’ve done, I hope the world drops into Hell!”
“Hell! Hell?”
The gloomy days that followed were overloaded with pain. Umaima was overcome by grief, and her health failed; she began to look emaciated. In a few short years, Adham looked older than a long life would have made him, and they both suffered from feebleness and sickliness. One day their illness intensified and they went to bed, Umaima with the two little boys in the inner room, and Adham in the outer room—Qadri and Humam’s room. The day passed, night came and they lit no lamp. Adham was content with the moonlight that shone in from the yard. He dozed and slept intermittently, in a state between sleeping and waking. He heard Idris’ mocking voice from outside the hut.
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
His heart sank and he did not answer. He always dreaded the hour when his brother left home for his nights out. Now here came the voice again.
“Look, everybody! Look how kind I am, and how stubborn he is!” And he went away singing: “Three of us climbed the mountain to hunt. One was killed by passion, the second lost by love.”
Adham’s eyes filled with tears. This evil never tires of its pleasure. It fights, kills and yet wins respect. It is cruel and overpowering and laughs at punishment—its laugh rocks the horizons! It delights in harassing the weak, it adores funerals and sings over tombstones. Death comes near me and it still mocks me with laughter. The victim is in the earth and the killer is lost, and in my hut we weep for them both. Childish laughter in the garden has given way to scowling age wet with tears. Within the remnant of my body there is only pain. Why all this misery? Where have my dreams gone? Where?
Adham imagined that he heard footfalls. Slow, heavy footfalls that stirred misty memories, as a strong, sweet smell may defy perception and definition. He turned his face to the entrance of the hut and saw the door open, then saw it blocked by a huge form. He started in surprise, and peered through the dark, his hopes enclosed by fears, then a deep moan escaped him.
“Father?” he murmured.
He seemed to be hearing the old voice: “Good evening, Adham.”
His eyes swam with tears. He tried to get up but could not. He felt a delight, a bliss that he had not known in twenty years.
“Let me believe,” he stammered.
“You are crying, but it is you who sinned.”
“The sin was great and the punishment was great,” said Adham in a voice choked with tears. “But even the lowest insects don’t despair of finding some shade.”
“So you are teaching me wisdom!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m plagued by grief and illness—even my sheep are threatened with ruin.”
“That is very nice, that you are concerned for the sheep.”
“Have you forgiven me?” Adham asked hopefully.
There was silence, then: “Yes.”
“Thank God!” said Adham, his whole body trembling. “Only a little while ago I was trapped in the lowest pit of despair!”
“And you found me there!”
“Yes—it is like waking up from a nightmare.”
“That’s what makes you a good son.”
“I begot a murderer and a victim,” sighed Adham.
“The dead don’t come back. What do you ask?”
Adham sighed. “I used to yearn to be back singing in the garden, but today nothing can make me happy.”
“The estate will belong to your children.”
“Thank God.”
“Don’t excite yourself. Go back to sleep.”
In more or less close succession, first Adham, then Umaima, then Idris left this life. Their children grew up. Qadri came back after a long absence, with Hind and their children. They grew up together and married among the others, and grew in number. Their neighborhood flourished, thanks to income from the estate, and thus our alley entered history; and from all these people were descended the people of our alley.