Yasmina froze where she stood and looked from one face to another; they seemed to her like a wall blocking her escape in a nightmare. They stared at her with aversion, and the aversion in Ali’s eyes had an iron severity.
“I’m innocent,” she shouted instinctively. “By the Lord of Heaven, I’m innocent. I went with you until they attacked us, and ran away the same as you did!”
They scowled.
“And who told you we ran away?” asked Ali hatefully.
“If you hadn’t run away,” she quavered, “you wouldn’t be alive now. But I am innocent. I didn’t do anything. All I did was run away!”
“You ran to your master, Bayoumi,” said Ali through clenched teeth.
“Never. Let me go. I am innocent.”
“You’ll go into the belly of the earth!” shouted Ali.
She tried to escape, but he jumped at her and grabbed her shoulders tightly.
“Let me go, for his sake—he never loved killing or killers!”
His hands closed around her neck.
“Wait until we’ve thought about this,” said Karim uneasily.
“Be quiet, cowards!” he shouted, grasping her neck with all of the rage, hatred, pain and remorse at war inside him. She tried in vain to free herself from his grip; she clutched his arms, kicked him and shook her head, but all her effort was lost and in vain. Her strength gave out, her eyes bugged out and then she began to spit blood. Her body convulsed violently, and then was still for good. He let go of her, and she fell at his feet, a corpse.
The next morning, Yasmina’s body was found dumped in front of Bayoumi’s house. The news spread like the dust of a hot sandstorm and everyone, men and women alike, ran toward the gangster’s house. There was a huge din of competing comments, but everyone kept his true feelings secret. The gate of Bayoumi’s house flew open, and the man rushed out like a raging bull and began to club everyone he could. Everyone ran away terrified and took shelter in homes and coffeehouses while the man stood in the empty alley cursing and threatening, and striking the dirt, the walls and the empty air.
The same day, Shafi’i and his wife abandoned the alley. It seemed that every trace of Rifaa had vanished.
But there were things that spoke of him constantly, such as Shafi’i’s home in the House of Triumph, the carpentry shop, Rifaa’s house in the neighborhood that was called “the hospice,” the site of his death west of Hind’s Rock and most of all his loyal companions, who stayed in contact with his admirers and taught them the mysteries of his way of cleansing souls of demons to treat the sick; thus, they were certain, they were restoring Rifaa to life. Ali, however, could not rest unless he was punishing criminals.
“You have nothing to do with Rifaa!” Hussein once scolded him.
“I know Rifaa better than any of you do,” said Ali sternly. “He spent his short life in a violent struggle against demons.”
“You want to go back to gangsterism—the most hateful thing in the world to him.”
“He was a leader, bigger than any gangster, but his gentleness fooled you,” cried Ali fervently.
Each of them went on to promote his own view, in total sincerity. The alley retold Rifaa’s story, with all the facts, which most people had not known. It was reported that his body had lain in the desert until Gabalawi himself came and got it; now it was concealed in the soil of his own fabulous garden. The perilous events were just trailing off there, when the gangster Handusa vanished mysteriously. His mutilated corpse was discovered dumped in front of the house of Ihab the overseer. The overseer’s house was just as convulsed as Bayoumi’s had been, and the alley went through a terrible period of fear. Violence fell like rain on anyone who had had any relation, or imagined relation, with Rifaa or any of his men. Clubs crushed heads and feet trampled bellies, words pierced hearts and hands inflamed necks. Some people locked themselves in their houses, and some abandoned the alley altogether; some, contemptuous of the danger, were executed in the desert. The alley, covered in blackness and gloom, was loud in its screams and wails, and smelled of blood, but strangely, this did not impede further actions. Khalid was killed as he left Bayoumi’s house before dawn, and the rage of the terror mounted to madness, but our alley was awakened from its last sleep one night by a tremendous fire that destroyed the house of the gangster Gaber and killed his family.
“Rifaa’s crazy people are everywhere, like bedbugs!” shrieked Bayoumi. “I swear to God, they are going to be killed, even in their houses!”
Word got around the alley that their houses were to be attacked at night, and people were practically insane with fear. They ran out of their houses in a frantic mob, carrying sticks, chairs, cooking-pot lids, knives, clogs and bricks. Bayoumi planned to strike before things got completely out of control; he lifted his club and came out of his house surrounded by a ring of his followers.
Ali appeared for the first time, leading the rioters with some other strong men. As soon as he saw Bayoumi coming, he ordered bricks to be thrown, and a swarm of bricks as thick as locusts landed on Bayoumi and his men, and the blood began to spout. Bayoumi pounced like a madman, screaming like a savage, but a rock struck the top of his head, and he stopped, and in spite of his rage, his strength and his boldness, he staggered, and then fell down, his face a mask of blood. His followers were quick to flee, and waves of angry rioters swept into the gangster’s house; the sounds of smashing and breaking could be heard by the overseer in his house. Mischief reigned as punishment was meted out to the remaining gangsters and their followers and their houses were laid waste. The danger mounted, and total chaos was near when the overseer summoned Ali, and Ali came to meet him. Ali’s men held off from further revenge and destruction, awaiting the results of this meeting, and things calmed down and people cooled off.
The meeting produced a new covenant in the alley. The followers of Rifaa were recognized as a new community, just like Gabal’s, with its own rights and prerogatives, and Ali was appointed overseer of their estate, and their protector. He would receive their share of the revenues, and distribute them on the basis of total equality. All those who had fled the alley during times of trouble now returned to the new community, led by Shafi’i and his wife, Zaki, Hussein and Karim. Rifaa enjoyed respect, veneration and love in death that he had never dreamed of during his lifetime. There was even a wonderful story, retold by every tongue and recited to rebec tunes, particularly of how Gabalawi lifted up his body and buried it in his fabulous garden. All Rifaa’s followers agreed on that and they were unanimously loyal and reverent to his parents, but they differed on everything else. Karim, Hussein and Zaki insisted that Rifaa’s mission had been limited to healing the sick and despising power and majesty; they and their sympathizers in the alley did as he had done. Some went further and refrained from marriage, to imitate him and live their lives his way. Ali, however, retained his rights to the estate, married and called for the renewal of their community. Rifaa had not hated the estate itself, but only to prove that true happiness was achievable without it, and to condemn the vices inspired by covetousness. If the revenue was distributed justly, and put toward building and charity, then it was the greatest good.
In any case, the people were delighted with their good lives, and welcomed life with radiant faces; they said with confident security that today was better than yesterday, and that tomorrow would be better than today.
Why is forgetfulness the plague of our alley?