Carpentry was his living and his future, and there seemed to be no escape from it. If it did not make him happy, what would make him happy? It was better than slaving behind a handcart or carrying baskets, or other lines of work, like being a thug or gangster—how hateful, how detestable they were. Umm Bekhatirha had stirred his imagination as nothing ever had, except for the picture of Gabalawi painted on the wall of the room in the poet Gawad’s house. He begged his father to have a picture like it painted in their house or in the shop, but his father told him, “We have better uses for that kind of money, and it’s only a fairy tale, so what good is that?” All Rifaa could do was say, “I wish I could see him!” His father laughed heartily and chided him, “Wouldn’t it be better to see to your job? You’re not always going to have me here, and you have to prepare for the day when you’ll have the responsibility of your mother, your wife and children, all by yourself.” But Rifaa thought about everything Umm Bekhatirha had done and said, as he had never thought about anything before. What she said about demons seemed to him supremely important. He forgot none of it, even in the happy times he spent visiting all the alley coffeehouses, one after the other. Even the same stories did not make the same profound impression that Umm Bekhatirha’s stories did. Every man had a demon that was his master, and just as the master was, the slave became; that was what Umm Bekhatirha said. How many evenings had he spent with the old lady listening to the drumbeat and watching the taming of the demons. Some ailing people were brought to the house, powerless and still, and others were carried in shackled because of their evil. The right incense was burned, for every condition had its own incense, and the appropriate drumbeat, as every demon demanded its own beat, and then the wonders occurred. We know that every demon has his cure, but what is the cure for the overseer and his gangsters? Those evil things mock exorcism, while perhaps it was created solely for them! Killing was the way to be rid of them, while demons submitted to sweet incense and lovely melodies. How can an evil demon be captivated by beauty and goodness? How strange what we learn from demons and exorcisms! He told Umm Bekhatirha that he wished from the bottom of his heart to pursue the secrets of exorcism. She asked him, Do you crave riches? He answered her that he did not want riches, only to purge the alley. The woman laughed, saying that he was the first man who wanted that job; what fascinated him about it? He assured her, The wisest thing in your work is that you defeat evil with goodness and beauty. His soul was soothed when she began to divulge to him her secrets. To declare his delight, he went up to the roof of the house in the rapture of daybreak to witness the awakening of light, but the mansion, rather than the stars, the silence or the cock, preoccupied his mind, and he gazed at the mansion slumbering among the tall trees and wondered, Where are you, Grandfather? Why don’t you appear, even for a moment? Why don’t you come out, even once? Why don’t you speak—just one word? Do you not know that one word from you could change our alley? Or do you like what is going on here? How beautiful are the trees around your house! I love them because you do. Look at them, so that I can read your looks upon them. His father scolded him when he told him of his notions, and said, “What about your work, you lazy boy! Boys your age are roaming every neighborhood trying to find a living, or making the whole alley tremble when they lift their clubs!”
One day when the family was assembled, after lunch, Abda spoke to her husband with a smile. “Tell him!”
Rifaa saw that this involved him and looked expectantly at his father, but the man addressed his wife. “First you tell him what you have to say.”
Abda gazed proudly at her son. “Glad news, Rifaa. Lady Zakia, the wife of our protector Khunfis, visited me! I returned her visit, of course, and she received me warmly and presented her daughter Aisha to me—a girl as beautiful as the moon. And then she visited me again and brought Aisha with her.”
Shafi’i glanced furtively at his son as he raised his coffee cup to his mouth, to see the effect of this story on him. He shook his head at the difficulty that awaited him, and spoke grandly.
“This is an honor accorded to no other house in the Al Gabal neighborhood. Imagine that the wife and daughter of Khunfis should visit this house of ours!”
Rifaa lifted his eyes to his mother in bewilderment.
“How elegant their house is—the soft chairs, the fabulous carpet! The curtains that hang from the windows and doors.”
“All that luxury came from the Al Gabal’s usurped wealth!”
Shafi’i stifled a smile and said, “We have promised not to talk about that.”
“Let’s just remember that Khunfis is the master of the Al Gabal and that the friendship of his family is an answered prayer!” said Abda earnestly.
“Congratulations on your new friend,” said Rifaa crossly.
The mother and her husband exchanged a meaningful look.
“The fact that Aisha came with her mother told me something.”
“Told you what, Mother?” asked Rifaa, feeling depressed.
Shafi’i laughed and made a despairing gesture with his hand and turned to Abda. “We should have told him how we got married!”
“No!” exclaimed Rifaa. “Father, no!”
“What do you mean? What’s wrong with you, acting like a virgin girl?”
“It is in your hands,” said Abda with hopeful urgency. “You can make us part of the running of the Al Gabal’s estate. They will welcome you if you go to them; even Khunfis will welcome you. If the woman weren’t sure of her influence with him, she wouldn’t have come here. You can have status that the whole alley will be jealous of from one end to the other.”
“Who knows,” laughed his father. “Someday you might be overseer of the Al Gabal’s estate, or one of your sons might be.”
“Are you actually saying this, Father? Have you forgotten why you were driven out of this alley twenty years ago?”
Shafi’i blinked, a little confused. “Today we live like everyone else. We must not ignore an opportunity that comes begging to us.”
Rifaa stammered and spoke as if to himself. “How can I marry into a demon’s family when all I want to do is expel demons?”
“I never expected to make anything more than a carpenter of you,” shouted Shafi’i menacingly, “and now luck offers you an important rank in our alley—but you want to be an exorcist like some black woman! What a scandal! What evil eye is afflicting you? Say that you will marry her, and spare us your jokes.”
“I will not marry her, Father.”
“I will visit Khunfis to ask him for the match,” said Shafi’i, ignoring him.
“Don’t do it, Father,” shouted Rifaa vehemently.
“Tell me why you are doing this, boy,” his father asked him impatiently.
“Don’t be hard on him,” Abda begged her husband. “You know how he is.”
“Don’t I know! Our alley will condemn us for his weakness.”
“Go easy on him so he’ll think about it.”
“Boys his age are already fathers and the ground trembles under their steps!” He stared at him, furious, and went on exasperatedly. “Why does all the blood leave your face? You come from the loins of men!”
Rifaa sighed. He was depressed enough to cry. The bonds of fatherhood are broken by anger. A house may become at times a gloomy prison. What you desire is not in this place or among these people.
“Don’t torture me, Father” he said hoarsely.
“You’re the one torturing me, just as you have ever since you were born.”
Rifaa bowed his head until his face was hidden from his parents. His father dropped his voice and calmed his anger as much as he could.
“Are you afraid of marriage? Wouldn’t you like to get married? Tell me what is in your heart—or I’ll go to Umm Bekhatirha. Maybe she knows more about you than we do!”
“No!” cried Rifaa sharply. He stood abruptly and left the room.