Shakrun’s life entered a period of mysterious upset. He sometimes spoke in a very loud voice, as if he were giving a speech. “Age. It’s old age,” people said pityingly. He got terribly angry for the most trivial reasons, or no reason, and they would again say, “Old age.” He remained silent for long periods, even when circumstances called for him to say something, and they said, “Old age.” He said things that the alley considered blasphemous, which made people say, a little anxiously, “God spare me from old age.” Arafa often watched him with concern and sympathy through the bars. One day he was watching him, and said to himself, “He is a dignified man, in spite of his old rags and dirtiness. The decadence of this alley after Qassem’s time is engraved on his gaunt face. It was his bad luck to have lived in Qassem’s time, and to have enjoyed justice and safety. He got his full share of the estate revenue, and saw the buildings built in Gabalawi’s name, and then stopped on Qadri’s orders. In all, he is a courageous man who has lived too long.” He saw Awatif coming, her face flawless since her eye was healed. He turned from the man to her and called out with a smile. “Tea, beautiful!”
She brought him the glass, and he spoke before taking it from her to make sure that she stayed.
“Congratulations on being well. You’re the rose of this alley.”
“Thank God. And you.” She smiled.
He took the glass, purposely touching her fingers with his, and she went back, her happy walk illustrating her acceptance of his touch, and her pleasure. What better time to take the decisive step? He was not a man who lacked boldness, though if he did Santuri would have a thousand accounts to settle with him. It was Shakrun’s fault, for putting his daughter in Santuri’s way! Poor man, pushing his cart had exhausted him until he could do it no longer, so he had opened this ill-omened coffee stand. From afar he heard clamor and shouts, and saw all heads turn toward Gamaliya. In no time a horse-drawn cart appeared, filled with singing, handclapping women, and in the middle of them a bride returning from the public baths. Boys ran toward the cart, cheering and holding on to the sides as it moved toward Gabal. The air was ablaze with shrill trilling, shouted greetings and obscene whispers.
Shakrun stood up as if in anger. “Strike!” he thundered. “Strike!”
Awatif hurried to him and made him sit down, patting him worriedly but lovingly on the back. Arafa wondered whether the man was dreaming, or hallucinating. What was worse than old age? So how could Gabalawi be living? He watched the man until he had quieted down, and then asked him gently, “Shakrun, did you ever see Gabalawi?”
“Idiot,” said Shakrun, without looking at him, “don’t you know that he has been secluded in his mansion since before Gabal’s time?”
Arafa laughed, and Awatif smiled.
“God give you long life, Shakrun,” he said pleasantly.
“That was a prayer that was really worth something, back when life was worth something,” Shakrun shouted.
Awatif came to take his glass, and whispered to him, “Leave him as he is. He doesn’t sleep even one hour a night.”
“My heart is with you,” he said with ardent concern. Then, before she could start walking away, “I would like to talk to him about you and me.”
She warned him with a finger and departed. He consoled himself by watching the children playing hide the onion. Suddenly Santuri appeared, coming from the Al Qassem neighborhood, and instinctively Arafa drew his head back from the bars. What brought him here? Luckily he had moved into the Rifaa neighborhood, and Agag was his protector, Agag who was so besotted with the “gifts.” The gangster came closer until he stood before Shakrun’s coffee stand, watching Awatif’s face closely. “Coffee, no sugar,” he said.
A woman’s laughter pealed from a window, and another woman was heard to ask, “What brings Qassem’s gangster to order coffee from the beggars’ stand?”
Santuri seemed indifferent to everything. Awatif gave him the cup, and Arafa’s heart flip-flopped in his chest. The gangster waited for the hot drink to cool, showing the girl a shameless smile that revealed his gold teeth. Arafa thought to himself that he would like to beat him with Muqattam Mountain itself.
Santuri sipped his coffee. “It’s delicious. Made with your beautiful hands,” he said.
She was afraid to smile and just as afraid to frown. Shakrun looked at her, alarmed. The gangster gave her a five-piaster coin, and she reached into her pocket for his change, but he did not wait for it, or look as though he wanted anything. He strolled back to the Qassem coffeehouse. Awatif was confused.
“Don’t go to him,” Arafa told her in a low voice.
“What about the rest of the money?” she asked.
Despite his feebleness, Shakrun stood up and took the money, then went to the coffeehouse. A moment later he came back and took his seat again. He began to laugh until his daughter came over to him.
“That’s enough laughing,” she said urgently.
Again he got up, and stood facing Gabalawi’s mansion at the end of the alley. “Gabalawi!” he shouted. “Gabalawi!”
Every eye was on him, from the windows and the doors of the buildings, basements and coffeehouses. Children ran to him, and even the dogs stared at him.
“Gabalawi!” Shakrun shouted again. “How long will you be silent and hidden? Your commandments are ignored and your money is being wasted. Look, you’re being robbed the same way your grandchildren are being robbed, Gabalawi!”
“Hurray!” yelled the children, and most of the people laughed.
But the old man kept shouting. “Gabalawi, can’t you hear me? Don’t you know what has happened to us? Why did you punish Idris, when he was a thousand times better than the gangsters in our alley? Gabalawi!”
At this point Santuri came out of the coffeehouse. “Be careful, you senile old man.”
Shakrun turned to him angrily. “God damn you, bastard!”
People began to whisper anxiously, “He’s a dead man.” Santuri walked toward him, blind with rage, and punched him on the side of the head. The man staggered and almost fell, but Awatif caught him. Santuri saw her and went back to his chair.
“Let’s go home, Father,” the girl said, weeping.
Arafa joined her in holding him up, but the old man tried weakly to push them away from him. He was breathing heavily, and everyone became very somber.
“It’s your fault, Awatif,” said a woman from a window. “He should have been home.”
“What could I do?” asked Awatif, still crying.
“Gabalawi!” gasped Shakrun weakly. “Gabalawi!”