Where is Qidra?
This is what Zaqlut and the other gangsters were asking. They all wondered where their friend was—he had vanished from sight just as the men of Al Hamdan had vanished from the alley. Qidra’s house was in the next neighborhood over from the Al Hamdan’s. He was a bachelor and spent his nights out, and never came back home until dawn or later. It was not uncommon for him to stay away from his house for a night or two, but he had never been away for a whole week with no one knowing where he was, especially in these days of siege when he was expected to be alert and watchful as never before. They had doubts about the Al Hamdan, and it was decided to search their houses, which were attacked by the gangsters led by Zaqlut and carefully searched from the cellars to the roofs. They dug up the length and breadth of the courtyards, insulted the men of the Al Hamdan in every possible way—with slapping, kicking and spitting on them—but uncovered nothing suspicious. They split up to go all around the desert questioning people, but no one was able to give them any helpful guidance. Qidra was now the main topic as the hashish pipe was passed in the meeting place by the grape arbor in Zaqlut’s garden. Darkness swathed the garden except for the wan light of a small standing lamp set just a few inches from the brazier to light Barakat’s work as he cut the hashish and flattened out the pieces. He stoked the coals and pressed them into the top of the pipe to keep it going. The lamp shook in the current of breeze and its dancing light was reflected on the stolid faces of Zaqlut, Hammouda, al-Laithy and Abu Sari, showing heavy-lidded eyes whose distracted gazes held dark intentions. The croaking of frogs sounded like muted cries for help in the calm of the night. Barakat passed the hashish pipe to al-Laithy, who passed it to Zaqlut.
“Where has the man gone? It’s as if the earth swallowed him up.”
Zaqlut drew in a deep breath and dug into the hollow pipe with his index finger, then exhaled a blast of thick smoke.
“The earth did swallow up Qidra. He’s been lying inside it for a week.”
They looked at him worriedly, all except for Barakat, who was absorbed in what he was doing.
“No gangster disappears without a reason,” Zaqlut went on, “and I know when I smell death.”
After a coughing fit that bent him double as wind bends a blade of grass, Abu Sari asked, “Who killed him, sir?”
“Think! Who would it be but one of the men of Al Hamdan?”
“But they can’t leave their houses, and we searched them.”
Zaqlut struck the side of his cushion with his fist and asked, “What do the other people in the alley say?”
“In my neighborhood,” said Hammouda, “they think that the Al Hamdan have something to do with Qidra’s disappearance.”
“Pay attention, you idiots, as long as the people think that Qidra’s killer was one of the Al Hamdan, we have to think the same thing.”
“What if the killer was from Atuf?”
“Even if he was from Kafr al-Zaghari, we aren’t as concerned with punishing the killer as we are with frightening the others.”
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Abu Sari.
Al-Laithy emptied the brazier and returned the pipe to Barakat and said, “God help the Al Hamdan.”
Their dry chuckles mingled with the croaking of the frogs, and their heads shook threateningly from side to side. A sudden strong breeze blew, followed by the rattling of dry leaves. Hammouda slapped his hands together.
“It’s no longer a question of trouble between the Al Hamdan and the overseer—it’s a question of our honor.”
Again Zaqlut struck his cushion with his fist.
“None of us has ever been killed by anyone in his alley.” His features hardened in such fury that his companions grew afraid of him and were careful to make no sound or movement that might turn his fury on them. Silence fell, in which only the gurgle of the hashish pipe, a cough or cautious clearing of a throat could be heard.
“Suppose Qidra comes back unexpectedly?” Barakat asked.
“I’ll shave myself clean, you girlish little hash-head,” sneered Zaqlut.
Barakat was the first to laugh, then they all fell silent again. In their mind’s eye they saw the massacre: clubs crushing heads, blood flowing until it dyed the ground, voices screaming from windows and roofs, the mounting death rattle of dozens of men. Immersed in their violent desires, they exhanged cruel looks. They cared nothing for Qidra himself; none of them had liked him. In fact, none of them liked any of the others, but they were united by the common desire to terrorize, and to put down sedition.
“What next?” asked al-Laithy.
“I have to go back to the overseer as we pledged,” said Zaqlut.