Arafa’s clientele grew as the days passed, but no customer lifted his heart the way Awatif had done the day he saw her coming toward him in the receiving room. He forgot the learned gravity he assumed in front of his customers, standing up to welcome her. He seated her on a cushion opposite him, and sat down cross-legged, feeling that the world was not large enough to contain his joy. He greeted her with a look that took all of her in, but settled on her left eye, which was nearly hidden beneath an inflamed swelling.
“You’ve neglected that, girl,” he objected. “It’s been red since the first day I saw you.”
“I just washed it with warm water,” she said almost apologetically. “When you’re as busy with work as I am, you forget.”
“You must never forget your health, especially when it’s a question of a precious organ like your beautiful eye!”
She smiled, affected by the praise, while he reached back to a shelf behind him for a vessel. He took a small package from it and held it up to her. “Tie up the contents of this in a handkerchief, hold it over steaming hot water, then bind it over your eye every night until it goes back to being as beautiful as its sister.”
She accepted the package, and took a bag from her pocket, asking him with her right eye how much it cost.
He laughed. “Don’t worry about that. We’re neighbors, and now we’re friends.”
“But you pay for the tea you drink.”
“Actually, I’m paying your father,” he said evasively. “He is a venerable man. I wish I knew him! I feel so sorry that he has to work at his age.”
“But he’s in good health,” she said indifferently. “He refuses to sit at home, even though his long life is one of the reasons he is sad. He lived through the events of Qassem’s time.”
Arafa’s face lit up with interest. “Really! Was he one of his followers?”
“No, but he was happy in those days, and he’s nostalgic for them now.”
“I want to know him, and listen to him.”
“Don’t get him talking on that subject. I wish he’d forget it forever, for his own good. One time he was in a bar having a drink with some of his friends, and after he got drunk he stood up and said, as loudly as he could, that life should go back to being the way it had been under Qassem, and when he got back to our alley he found Santuri in front of him. Santuri punched and slapped him, and he didn’t stop until he was unconscious.”
Deeply angered, Arafa thought a moment, then looked slyly at Awatif. “No one is safe with those gangsters around.”
She glanced at him fleetingly to see how much he meant by this clear statement. “You’re right, no one is safe with them.”
He paused, biting his lip hesitantly. “I saw Santuri give you an absolutely insolent look.”
She hid her smile with a slight downward turn of her head. “God take him!” she said.
“Doesn’t it please a girl to be admired by a gangster like him?” he asked suspiciously.
“He has four wives!”
His heart sank deep within him. “But if he could have another?”
“I’ve hated him ever since he attacked my father,” she said sharply. “And I feel the same way about all the gangsters. They have no hearts. They’re so arrogant when they collect the protection money that you’d think they were the ones giving it.”
He relaxed, reinvigorated. “Yes, Awatif. And Qassem did the right thing when he got rid of them, but they’re back, like inflamed boils!”
“That’s why my father longs for Qassem’s time.”
He suddenly shook his head inattentively. “And there are others, who long for Gabal’s times, and Rifaa’s, but the past is gone for good.”
“You say that because you never saw Qassem, like my father,” she said, sounding pleasantly vexed.
“Did you see him?”
“My father told me.”
“And my mother told me, but what good is that? It doesn’t get rid of gangsters for us. My mother herself was one of their victims, and they even make insinuations about her, when she’s dead.”
“Really?”
His face clouded, like a glass of clear water suddenly made turbid by its swirling sediment. “That’s why I’m afraid for you, Awatif. The gangsters threaten our livings, supplies, love and peace. I’ll tell you the truth—from the time I saw that beast looking at you, I knew I would have to get rid of them all.”
“They say our ancestor, Gabalawi, wants it that way.”
“Where is our ancestor?”
“In the mansion,” she said simply.
He spoke quietly, his face showing no sign of mirth. “Yes, your father talks about Qassem, and Qassem talked about our ancestor. That’s what we hear. But all we see is Qadri, Saadallah, Agag, Santuri and Yusuf. We need a power to rid us of that torment. What good are memories?”
He was aware that this turn of the conversation risked spoiling their meeting, so he began to speak ardently. “Our alley needs a power, the way I need you!”
She looked at him in disgust, and he smiled with a boldness that came naturally to his predatory eyes.
“A nice, hardworking, beautiful girl,” he said seriously, to banish the rising anger of her lowered eyebrows. “So overworked that she forgets her eye until it swells up, then she comes to me, thinking that she needs me. The truth becomes clear to her—that I am the one who needs her.”
“I have to go,” she said, starting to get up.
“Not in anger, please. Remember, I didn’t say anything new. Of course you’ve noticed my admiration for you these past days. I’m always looking from my window at your coffee stand. A bachelor like me can’t live alone forever. My house is full of work—it needs to be looked after. I make more money than I need—someone has to help me spend it.”
She left the room, and he stood at the end of the hall to see her out. It was as if she did not want to go without saying goodbye.
“Stay well,” she said.
He sang softly to himself.
How proud your cheek, my beauty.
I hope to drink with, and to, my beauty.
And you’re the most beautiful thing I see.
Then he strode vigorously into his workroom and found Hanash engrossed in his chores. “What are you doing?”
Hanash showed him a bottle. “It’s ready, and perfectly sealed, but you have to try it in the desert.”
Arafa took it from him and checked the plug. “Yes, in the desert. Otherwise everyone will find out about it.”
“We’re starting to make a living, and life is good—don’t throw away all the happiness God has given you.”
Hanash had begun to feel depressed by life since it started to unravel, in his eyes. Arafa smiled at the thought, and gazed at Hanash.
“She was your mother just as much as mine.”
“Yes, but she begged you not to consider revenge.”
“You had a different opinion then!”
“We’d be killed before we could take revenge.”
Arafa laughed. “I won’t hide from you that I stopped thinking of revenge a long time ago.”
“Give me the bottle and let me empty it,” said Hanash, his face bright.
But Arafa closed his hand over the bottle. “No, let’s test it until it’s perfect.”
Hanash frowned resentfully.
“I mean what I say, Hanash. Trust me, I’ve changed my mind about revenge, not because our mother begged me, but because I think the gangsters have got to go. Apart from any revenge.”
“Because you love that girl,” said Hanash pointedly.
Arafa laughed until Hanash could see down his throat. “Love for the girl, love for life, call it what you want. Qassem was right!”
“What do you have to do with Qassem! Qassem was doing what his ancestor wanted.”
He made a glum face. “Who knows? Our alley tells its stories, but we are doing vital things here in this room, there’s no doubt about that. Where is the safety in our life? Agag will come along tomorrow to rob us of everything we’ve got, and if I make any move to marry Awatif, I’ll have to face Santuri’s club. This is the way it is for every man in our alley, even the beggars. What ruins my happiness is what ruins the happiness of the whole alley, and what protects me will protect them. I’m not a gangster, or one of Gabalawi’s men, but I possess the wonders in this room, and they give me ten times the power that Gabal, Rifaa and Qassem had, put together.” He lifted the bottle in his hand, and made a vigorous motion as if to throw it, then returned it to Hanash. “We’ll test it tonight in the desert. Now, smile and get ready to be amazed.”
He left the workroom for the window, and squatted on the sofa, looking out at the portable coffee stand. Night was falling gradually, and he could hear her voice hawking coffee and tea. She avoided looking at his window, which showed that she was thinking of him. A smile twinkled on her lips like a star. Arafa smiled, and his whole being smiled, and happiness so flooded his heart that he vowed he would comb his hair every morning. He heard the clamor of people chasing a thief out of Gamaliya, then, from a coffeehouse, the rebec melodies and the voice of the poet beginning the evening’s recital.
First, to Lord Qadri our overseer
Second, to Saadallah our gangster
Third, to Agag, our local protector!
This wrested him pitilessly from his dream, and he said, with a certain mutinous weariness, “Now the stories will begin. When will these stories ever end? What good has ever come from listening to them all night long? The poet will sing, and the drug dens will wake up. Alley of sighs.”