Effendi strode into his hall, pale with fury, to find his wife standing there glowering.
“That was something,” she said. “We haven’t heard the last of it either. It will be the talk of the alley, and if we ignore it we will have no peace.”
“Rabble—trash—and they want the estate!” sneered Effendi. “Since when can anyone know what his origins are, in an alley like a beehive?”
“Settle it once and for all. Arrange something with Zaqlut. Zaqlut gets his share of the estate income but does nothing in return—let him earn what he takes from us!”
Effendi stared at her for a long time, then asked, “And Gabal?”
“Gabal! He’s our foster son—like my very own son,” she reassured him. “Our house is all he knows of the world—he doesn’t know the Al Hamdan and they don’t know him. Even if they did consider him one of them, they’d plead his case to us. I’m not worried about him. He’ll come back from doing his rounds among the tenants and he’ll attend the meeting.”
Zaqlut came at the overseer’s invitation. He was of medium height, bulky but with a strong physique, a ruddy, ugly face and scabby wounds on his neck and chin. They sat close to one another.
“I’ve heard some bad news,” said Zaqlut.
“How quickly bad news gets around,” said Huda irritably.
Effendi eyed Zaqlut slyly. “It hurts your prestige just as much as it hurts ours.”
“It has been a long time since I’ve used my club or shed any blood,” said Zaqlut in his voice as deep as the bellow of a bull.
“How deluded those Al Hamdan are,” said Huda, smiling. “They’ve never had a strong man of their own, but even the vilest one of them thinks he’s the master of the alley.”
“Peddlers and beggars,” spat Zaqlut. “No strong man will ever come from that cowardly trash.”
“So what can we do, Zaqlut?” asked Effendi.
“I’ll step on them—crush them like cockroaches.”
Gabal, entering the hall, heard what Zaqlut said. His face was flushed after his rounds in the desert, and the vitality of youth enlivened his strong, slender body and his face with its frank features, especially his straight nose and large, intelligent eyes. He greeted those present politely and began to speak about the properties rented that day, but Lady Huda interrupted him.
“Sit down, Gabal, we’ve been waiting for you. There’s something very important going on.”
Gabal sat down, his eyes reflecting the gravity still visible in the lady’s.
“I see that you can guess what’s on our minds,” she said.
“Everyone is talking about it out there,” he said quietly.
The lady looked over at her husband and then shrieked, “Did you hear that? Everyone’s waiting to see what we’re going to do!”
Zaqlut’s features grew even uglier. “Just a little fire a handful of dirt can smother. I can’t wait to get started!”
“What do you say?” Huda asked Gabal.
“It’s none of my business, my lady.” He was looking at the floor to hide his anxiety.
“I want to know what you think!”
He thought a while, feeling Effendi’s stabbing gaze, and Zaqlut’s angry looks, then said, “My lady, I’m blessed in being your foster son, but I don’t know what to say. I’m only one of the children of Hamdan!”
“Why do you mention Hamdan when you have no father or mother or other family among them?” said Huda sharply.
Effendi made a brief sound of scorn, something like a laugh, but did not speak.
It was clear from Gabal’s face that he was in real pain, but he spoke. “My father and mother were from them. That’s simply the truth.”
“My son is disappointing me,” observed Huda.
“God forbid—even Muqattam Mountain could never budge my loyalty to you, but denying facts doesn’t change them.”
His patience exhausted, Effendi stood up and spoke to Zaqlut.
“Don’t waste your time listening to this.”
Zaqlut stood, smiling, and the lady spoke to him, looking aside at Gabal. “Don’t overdo it, dear Zaqlut. We want to discipline them, not destroy them.”
Zaqlut left the hall.
Effendi threw Gabal a look of rebuke. “So, Gabal, you’re one of the Al Hamdan?” he asked mockingly.
Gabal took refuge in silence until Huda rescued him.
“His heart is with us, but it hurt him too much to deny his family in front of Zaqlut.”
“They are miserable, my lady,” conceded Gabal, “even though they are the aristocrats of the alley, if you consider their origins.”
“There are no origins in that alley!” screeched Effendi.
“We are the children of Adham,” said Gabal seriously, “and our grandfather is still alive—may God prolong his life!”
“Who can prove that he’s his father’s son?” asked Effendi. “He can say that every so often if he likes, but it should not be used to steal what belongs to others.”
“We don’t wish them any ill, on condition that they don’t covet our wealth,” said Huda.
Effendi wanted to end the conversation. He said to Gabal, “Get back to your work, and don’t think of anything but that.”
Gabal left the hall for the estate office in the garden reception area. He needed to enter some rental deals in the ledger and review the final monthly accounts, but he was too depressed. It was strange, but the Al Hamdan did not love him. He knew it; he remembered how coolly he was welcomed in the Hamdan Coffeehouse the few times he called there. Even so, it saddened him, the harm that was in store for them. It saddened him even more, the provocative behavior that enraged him. He wanted to keep the danger away from them, but was worried about angering the household that had taken him in, adopted and raised him. How would it have been for him had Lady Huda’s affection not overtaken him? Twenty years ago the lady had seen a naked boy bathing in a ditch filled with rainwater; she took pleasure in watching him, and her heart—which barrenness had kept from enjoying the blessing of motherhood—warmed toward him. She sent someone to bring him, crying and afraid, in to her. She made inquiries about him and learned that he was an orphaned child cared for by a woman who sold chickens. The lady summoned the chicken seller and asked her to give the child up to her, and she welcomed the idea excitedly. And so Gabal grew up in the overseer’s house, and under its roof he was blessed with the happiest family life of anyone in the alley. They sent him to school, he learned to read and write, and when he came of age Effendi turned over the management of the estate to him. Wherever the estate had holdings the people called him “Your Excellency,” and respectful and admiring looks followed him wherever he went. Life seemed good, promising every wonderful thing, until the rebellion of the Al Hamdan. Gabal found that he was not one person, as he had imagined he was all his life; he was two people. One of them believed in loyalty to his mother and the other wondered bewilderedly, “What about the Al Hamdan?”