The overseer looked tiny in his cloak. The worry was clear in his round white face, the exhaustion that depressed his eyelids, the premature old age in his eyes and the wrinkles worn under them by ardent lusts. Bayoumi’s fat face did not reflect the inner satisfaction he enjoyed at his master’s unease, unease that reflected the momentousness of the news he had brought him, and, by extension, the momentous role he fulfilled in the service of the overseer and the estate. He was speaking to the overseer. “I had to trouble you with this in spite of myself. I could not take action without consulting you in any matter having to do with the estate. On the other hand, this simpleminded troublemaker is from the Al Gabal, and we have an agreement whereby none of us may attack any of them except with your permission.”
Ihab, the overseer, asked gloomily, “Has he really claimed he spoke to Gabalawi?”
“I’ve heard it from more than one source. The people he treats believe it, even if they make a great secret of it.”
“Maybe he’s crazy, the same way Gabal was a quack, but this filthy alley loves madmen and quacks. What do the Al Gabal want now that they’ve plundered the estate, with no right to? Why doesn’t Gabalawi talk to someone besides them? Why doesn’t he come to me? I’m his closest relative. He’s confined in his room and the gate of his mansion is opened only when his possessions are brought to him. He sees no one and no one sees him except his slave girl, but how easy it is for the Al Gabal to meet him or hear from him!”
“They won’t be satisfied until the whole estate is theirs,” said Bayoumi hatefully.
The overseer’s face was pale with anger, and he jumped to his feet to give orders, but then changed his mind and asked, “Did he say anything about the estate, or did he confine his activities to expelling demons?”
“Like Gabal, who confined his activities to expelling snakes,” sneered Bayoumi, adding jeeringly, “What does Gabalawi have to do with demons?”
“I don’t want the same curse on me that did Effendi in,” said Ihab decisively as he stood up.
Bayoumi summoned Gaber, Handusa, Khalid and Batikha to his den and told them that it was up to them to cure the madness of Rifaa, the son of Shafi’i the carpenter.
“For this you summoned us here?” asked Batikha crossly.
Bayoumi nodded, and Batikha slapped his hands together in amazement. “Hah! The gangsters of the alley meet to talk about a creature that’s neither man nor woman!”
Bayoumi threw him a look of contempt. “He has pursued his activities before your very eyes and ears, and you sensed no danger. And of course you never heard any of his claims about hearing from Gabalawi.”
They exchanged fiery looks through the spreading smoke, and Batikha spoke in bafflement. “Son of a bitch! What’s this, Gabalawi and demons! Was our ancestor an exorcist?”
They started to laugh, but quickly desisted when they noticed Bayoumi’s terrible scowl. “Batikha, you are stoned,” he said. “Gangsters get drunk and smoke hashish, but sniffing cocaine is beneath them!”
“Sir,” said Batikha in self-defense, “at Antar’s wedding I was the target of twenty men’s clubs—my face and neck were covered with blood, but my own club never fell from my hands.”
“Let’s leave it to him to deal with as he chooses,” said Handusa urgently. “Otherwise he’ll lose his standing. I wish he could find some way besides attacking the simpleton. Attacking someone like that would only degrade us.”
The alley slept, its people unaware of what was being contrived in Bayoumi’s den. The next morning Rifaa left his house, and when he saw Batikha standing in his way, he greeted him. “Good morning, Batikha, sir.”
“A bad morning to you and your mother,” growled the man, throwing him a look of revulsion. “Get back in your house and don’t come out or I’ll break your head.”
“What has angered our protector?” asked Rifaa, surprised.
“You’re talking to Batikha now, not Gabalawi,” he stormed. “Just get going.”
Rifaa was about to speak, but the gangster slapped him so hard that he fell back against the wall of the house. A woman saw the incident and screamed until her voice filled the alley and other women imitated her. Cries to aid Rifaa rose into the air. In no time crowds ran to the scene, among them Zaki, Ali, Hussein and Karim; then came Shafi’i, and Gawad the poet, feeling his way with his cane, and before long the place was crowded with Rifaa’s followers, both men and women. Batikha, who had expected none of this, was surprised, but lifted his hand and brought it down on Rifaa’s face. He took the blow without defending himself, but the crowd shouted in confusion, for they were seized with an intense agitation; some of them pleaded with Batikha to leave him alone, while others enumerated Rifaa’s virtues and good deeds. Many of them asked why he had been attacked, and they protested loudly.
Batikha’s anger flared up. “Have you forgotten who I am?”
The truth is that the crowd’s love for Rifaa, which had moved them to congregate unconsciously, was what emboldened them to respond to Batikha’s warning.
“Our protector, the crown on our head,” said a man in the front row of the crowd, “we have come only to ask your pardon for this good man.”
“You are our protector and we obey you,” shouted a man from the middle of the demonstration, emboldened by the size of the crowd and his location in it. “But what has Rifaa done?”
“Rifaa is innocent, and woe to anyone who harms him!” shouted a third man, at the rear of the crowd, reassured that he was invisible to the gangster’s eyes.
Batikha’s fury shot up, and he raised his club over his head. “You women!” he bellowed. “I’ll teach you a lesson!”
The women’s voices sounded from all corners until the alley was convulsed with screams, and every angry throat hurled bloody threats. Bricks landed at Batikha’s feet, barring him from taking a step. The man found himself in a terrible spot such as he had never experienced, not even in a nightmare. Death would be easier than asking any of the other gangsters for help, and the downpour of bricks was threatening him with death. He showed his leadership by his silence, and sparks flew from his eyes as the bricks continued to fly and the crowd still menaced him. Nothing like this had ever happened to any of the gangsters before.
Abruptly Rifaa went over to stand before Batikha, and held up his hands to the people until silence fell.
“Batikha has done nothing wrong,” he called in a powerful voice. “I am to blame!”
Their faces showed their skepticism but no one uttered a word.
“Go home before he gets angry with you.”
Most of the people understood that he wanted to spare the gangster’s honor and thus end the crisis, so they dispersed, followed by others who were merely confused. The rest sped away out of fear of being alone with Batikha, and the neighborhood was left empty.