Gabal cast a farewell look at the garden and reception hall and recalled the tragedy of Adham, retold every night to the accompaniment of the rebec, and walked to the gate. The gatekeeper stood up and asked, “What brings you out again, sir?”
“I am leaving and I’ll never be back, Hassanain,” said Gabal agitatedly.
The man’s jaw dropped and he stared at him for a confused moment, then mumbled, “Because of the Al Hamdan?”
Gabal lowered his head silently.
“Who could believe that?” asked the gatekeeper. “How could Lady Huda allow it? O God in Heaven! How will you live, my boy?”
Gabal crossed the threshold of the gate, looking over at the alley jammed with people, animals and garbage. “The same way the people of’ our alley live,” he answered.
“You were not born for that.”
Gabal smiled a little distractedly, and said, “Only chance saved me from it.”
He walked away from the house and the gatekeeper’s voice anxiously warning him to beware the gangsters’ anger.
The alley stretched before his eyes with its dust, pack animals, cats, boys and animal dens, and he realized the scale of the upheaval in his life; the troubles that awaited him; the ease he had lost. But his anger eclipsed his pain, and he seemed not to care about the flowers, birds and compassionate motherhood.
Hammouda appeared in his path and spoke with smooth insolence. “I hope you’ll help us punish the Al Hamdan!”
He ignored him and headed for a certain large house in Hamdan’s neighborhood and knocked. Hammouda followed him and asked in surprised disapproval, “What do you want?”
“I’m going back to my people,” he answered quietly.
Astonishment narrowed Hammouda’s eyes; he did not seem to believe what he had heard.
Zaqlut saw them as he was on his way home from the overseer’s house. “Let him go in,” he shouted at Hammouda. “If he comes out again, bury him alive.”
Hammouda’s astonishment left him and a stupid smirk spread across his face. Gabal kept knocking until windows opened in the house and in the neighbors’ houses and heads popped out, including those of Hamdan, Itris, Dulma, Ali Fawanis, Abdoun, Ridwan the poet and Tamar Henna.
“What does the aristocrat want?” sneered Dulma.
“With us or against us?” asked Hamdan.
“They threw him out, so he’s come back to his filthy roots,” shouted Hammouda.
“Did they really throw you out?” asked Hamdan, moved.
“Open the door, Uncle Hamdan,” said Gabal quietly.
Tamar Henna trilled her shrill joy and shouted, “Your father was a good man, and your mother was an honorable woman.”
“Lucky you—recommendations from a slut,” laughed Hammouda.
“Not as much as your mother, with her famous nights at the Sultan Baths!” shrieked Tamar Henna angrily. She was quick to close her window, and the stone that flew from Hammouda’s hand struck the outer shutter with a report that made the boys on the street corners cheer.
The door of the house opened and Gabal entered its damp air and strange smell. His people welcomed him with hugs and a clamor of loving words, but the welcome was cut short by a loud fight at the far end of the courtyard. Gabal looked and saw Daabis arguing fiercely and struggling with a man named Kaabalha.
He went over to them and pushed himself between them and spoke sharply. “You argue with each other while they imprison us in our houses!”
“He stole a sweet potato from a pot on my windowsill,” said Daabis, breathing heavily.
“Did you see me take it?” shouted Kaabalha. “Shame on you, Daabis!”
“Show mercy to one another so that Heaven will show mercy to us!” shouted Gabal angrily.
“My sweet potato is in his belly—I’ll pull it out with my hand!” Daabis insisted.
“I swear to God, I have not tasted a sweet potato in a week,” said Kaabalha, adjusting his cap on his head.
“You are the only thief in this building.”
“Don’t condemn someone without evidence the way Zaqlut did with you,” said Gabal.
“I’m going to punish this son of a whore,” shouted Daabis.
“Daabis, son of a radish seller!” Kaabalha shouted back.
Daabis flew at Kaabalha and punched him. Kaabalha stumbled, blood flowing from his forehead, and Daabis hit him again and again, ignoring the protestations of the bystanders, until Gabal lost his temper, intervened and seized him tightly by the neck.
Daabis tried futilely to free himself from Gabal’s grip. “Do you want to kill me the way you killed Qidra?” he gasped.
Gabal pushed him violently and he fell against the wall and glared at Gabal, enraged. The men looked from Gabal to Daabis and back again, wondering if Gabal had really killed Qidra. Dulma hugged him and Itris shouted, “God bless you—you prince of the Al Hamdan!”
“I only killed him to defend you!” Gabal told Daabis bitterly.
“But you loved doing it,” said Daabis softly.
“You are ungrateful, Daabis. For shame!” shouted Dulma. He pulled Gabal by the arm. “You’ll be my guest in my apartment, come, leader of the Al Hamdan!”
Gabal gave in to Dulma’s grasp, but felt that a bottomless abyss was opening under his feet this day.
“Is there no way to escape?” he whispered in Dulma’s ear as they walked together.
“Gabal, are you afraid someone will betray you to our enemies?”
“Daabis is an imbecile.”
“Yes, but he’s not that low!”
“I’m afraid that their accusation against you will be strengthened because of me!”
“I’ll show you the escape route if you want it, but where would you go?”
“The desert is wider than anyone knows.”