Arafa and Hanash were hard at work in the rear basement room by the light of a gas lamp fixed in the wall. The room was too dark and damp to be habitable, and was all the way in the back of the basement, so Arafa had made it into his workroom. On the floor and in the corners of the room lay collections of paper amulets, dust and lime, plants and spices, dried animals and insects such as mice, frogs and scorpions. There were piles of glass pieces, long-necked bottles, tin cans of fluids and strange, strong-smelling liquids. There was charcoal and a stove, and the shelves that had been installed on the walls held all kinds of vessels, containers and bags. Arafa was absorbed in a mixture of certain substances which he was kneading in a large ceramic vessel. Sweat dripped from his forehead, and every so often he wiped it with the sleeve of his galabiya.
Hanash was reclining nearby and watching closely, ready to obey any order he might be given. He spoke as if to console Arafa, or to curry his favor. “Not even the busiest person in this ill-omened alley works a fraction as hard as you do. Any what’s it for? A coin, or a piaster at the most.”
“God rest Mother’s soul,” said Arafa contentedly. “I am the only one who appreciates her. The day she gave me to that strange magician—who could read you every thought you had in your head—my life changed completely. Without her, I would have been a pickpocket, at best, or a beggar.”
“Coins,” said Hanash, insistent in his chagrin.
“With patience, money comes in. Don’t worry about that. Protection rackets are not the only way to riches. And don’t forget my exalted position here. Everyone who comes to me depends on me completely, and their happiness is in my hands. That’s no small thing. And don’t forget, either, the fun of the magic itself, the joy of turning dirty ingredients into something useful, the joy of healing, when people follow your orders. And there are the unknown powers you long to contact, and possess, if you could.”
Hanash looked at the stove and suddenly interrupted what his companion was saying. “I should light the stove under the skylight, or we’ll choke.”
“Light it in Hell, but don’t interrupt my thoughts! No idiot in this alley that considers himself educated is able to realize the importance of what I’m doing in this dark, filthy room with its funny smells. They appreciate the use of the ‘gift,’ but the gift isn’t everything. This room can produce marvels that the imagination can scarcely comprehend. Crazy people have no idea of Arafa’s true worth. Maybe someday they’ll know. Then they’ll have to ask for God’s mercy on Mother, and not make insinuations against her the way they do now.”
Hanash had half stood up, but squatted back down and said resentfully, “All this beauty could be destroyed by some stupid gangster’s stick.”
“We harm no one,” said Arafa sharply. “We pay the protection money. So why would anyone want to hurt us?”
“Why did they want to hurt Rifaa?” laughed Hanash.
“Why are you trying to drive me crazy?”
“You want to get rich, and here only gangsters get rich. You want to be powerful, but here only gangsters are allowed to be strong. You figure it out, brother!”
Arafa was silent, checking to see that he had been right about the ingredients he was mixing, then looked at Hanash, who still looked worried. He laughed. “Mother warned me before you. Thank you, Hanash, but I have come back to the alley with a plan.”
“It looks like all you care about anymore is magic.”
“Magic is so wonderful,” said Arafa, immediately carried away by the happy thought. “There is no limit to its power. No one knows where it ends. Even clubs are like children’s toys to someone who possesses magic. You know it, Hanash. Don’t be a fool. Imagine if all the children of the alley were magicians!”
“Well, if they were all magicians, they’d all have starved to death!”
Arafa’s laughter showed his sharp teeth. “Don’t be a fool, Hanash. Ask yourself what they might have done. By God, miracles would have come out of our alley the way curses and insults do now!”
“Yes, if they didn’t die of starvation first.”
“Yes, and they won’t die as long as they have—” He fell silent before he finished what he was saying, and kept thinking intently until his hands stopped working. Then he resumed: “The poet of the Al Qassem says that Qassem wanted to use the estate so that everyone’s needs would be met. So they wouldn’t have to work. They’d be free for the leisured happiness that Adham dreamed about.”
“That’s what Qassem said!”
Arafa’s eyes were bright and he spoke intensely. “But leisure isn’t the ultimate goal! Imagine spending your life free and at leisure. It’s a beautiful dream, but it’s so ludicrous, Hanash. It would be so much better to be freed from work so that we could work marvels.”
Hanash shook his large head, which seemed planted on his body with no neck to speak of, to protest a statement that meant nothing to him. Then, in his serious workplace tone of voice, he said, “Let me light the stove under the skylight now.”
“Do it, and put yourself over the flame, because all you deserve is burning.”
Arafa left the workroom an hour later. He went to the sofa and sat down to look through the window. After the silence, his ears were assaulted by the clamor of life. He heard the cries of peddlers, women’s conversations, shouted jokes and whole anthologies of obscenity, accompanied by wafting smells and the unending stream of pedestrians. Then he noticed something new in front of the wall that faced his window: a portable coffee stand made of a kind of tall cage covered with an old cape. There were boxes of coffee, tea, cinnamon, games, cups, glasses and spoons. An old man sat on the ground fanning the fire to heat the water, while a young girl stood behind the cage, calling out in her warm voice, “Great coffee, men!” The coffee stand was parked at the spot where Qassem and Rifaa met, and it seemed that most of its customers were handcart owners and the poor. Arafa gazed at the girl through the bars. How pretty, that brown face with its black scarf. That dark brown caftan that covered her from her neck to her feet; the hem of it trailed on the ground when she walked to deliver an order or returned with an empty glass. It was modest and decent. How beautiful, her slenderness and honey-colored eyes, if only it were not for the redness of her left eyelid, either from inflammation or from uncleanliness. She was the old man’s daughter, that was clear from their faces; he had begotten her in his old age, which is a very common thing in our alley.
“My girl! A cup of tea, if you please!”
She looked over at him, and quickly filled a glass from a pitcher that was half buried in the ashes, then crossed the road to offer it to him.
He smiled as he took it. “Bless you. How much?”
“A nickel piece.”
“It’s expensive! But for you, nothing is too much.”
“In the big coffeehouse,” she protested, “they charge half a piaster, and it’s exactly what you have in your hand.”
She left without waiting for his reply, and he began to sip the tea before it cooled, and without taking his eyes off her. How happy it would make him, having a girl that young. Her only fault was her red eye, and he could treat that easily, though that would require money that he did not yet have. The basement was ready; Hanash could sleep in the hall or the receiving room, if he liked, as long as he cleaned out the bedbugs first. He heard a strange buzz and saw people looking toward the end of the alley. Some of them were saying, “Santuri—Santuri.” Straining as much as he could, he looked out between the bars, and saw the gangster coming, surrounded by his gang. When he passed the portable coffee stand, he noticed the girl, and asked one of his men, “Who is the girl?”
“Awatif, the daughter of Shakrun.”
The man waggled his eyebrows, satisfied, and headed into his neighborhood.
Arafa felt anxious and unhappy. He waved his empty glass at the girl, and she glided over and took it and the coin from his hand. He motioned with his chin in the direction Santuri had gone. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
She laughed as she turned to go. “I’ll ask you for help if I need it, but will you help?”
Her scorn cut him; it was sad, not challenging. Just then he heard Hanash calling, and he jumped down to the floor and went inside.