It was not yet dawn when a long wail broke the silence, and then the people knew Shakrun had died. It was not an unusual occurrence in the alley. “God send him to Hell,” Santuri’s followers said. “He was always disrespectful, and his own disrespect killed him.”
“Shakrun was murdered,” Arafa told Hanash. “The same way a lot of people in this alley are murdered. The murderers don’t take the trouble to hide their crimes, and no one dares complain. There are no witnesses.”
“It’s horrible!” said Hanash in loathing. “Why did we ever come here?”
“It is our alley.”
“Our mother left it. It ruined her. It’s an accursed alley, it and everybody in it.”
“But it is our alley,” Arafa insisted.
“As if we’re doing penance for sins we never committed.”
“Giving up would be the worst sin of all.”
“The test with the bottle failed on the mountain,” said Hanash despairingly.
“But it will succeed the next time.”
Only Awatif and Arafa walked behind Shakrun’s bier. Only they had shown up in front of the building. Everyone was surprised to see Arafa the magician taking part in the funeral, and they whispered about the strange audacity of that insane magician.
Even stranger, Santuri joined the funeral procession when it passed through the neighborhood of the Al Qassem. And he did it with such insolent boldness! But it was without a trace of shame. He even spoke to Awatif. “May you live out his years, Awatif.”
Arafa realized that this was the man’s preface to a further demand. By now the funeral procession had changed in the blink of an eye, as it was hurriedly crowded with every neighbor and acquaintance whom fear had prevented from taking part. Now it filled the whole street.
“May you live out his years, Awatif,” Santuri repeated.
She looked at him menacingly. “You kill a man and walk in his funeral.”
“Something like that was once said to Qassem,” Santuri said loudly enough for everyone to hear.
“Say, ‘God is One!’ ” a babble of scolding voice urged Awatif “Death is in God’s hands alone!”
“My father was murdered by a blow of your hand!” Awatif shouted.
“God forgive you, Awatif,” said Santuri. “If I had really hit him, he would have died then and there. The truth is that I did not hit him, but I upset him, and everybody will swear to that.”
The people vied with one another to corroborate this.
“He just got him excited! He never touched him—may worms eat our eyes if we’re lying!”
“God will avenge me!” cried Awatif.
“God forgive you, Awatif,” said Santuri with an indulgence that became the stuff of a long-enduring proverb.
Arafa inclined himself to Awatif’s ear and said in a near-whisper, “Let the funeral go peacefully.” The next thing he knew, one of Santuri’s followers, a man named Adad, slapped him across the face and shouted at him.
“You son of a toilet! Who told you to get involved between them?”
Arafa turned to him, dazed, and received a blow even harder than the first. Another man slapped him, a third spat in his face, a fourth grabbed him by the collar and a fifth pushed him so hard that he fell on his back. A sixth man kicked him and said, “You’ll be buried in a grave if you go to her.”
He lay sprawled on the ground, stunned, then collected himself and got up with great pain. He brushed the dirt from his galabiya and his face. A crowd of children had gathered around him and were chanting, “The calf has stumbled, get a knife!” He went back to his basement, hobbling and half crazed with anger.
“I told you not to go!” groaned Hanash when he saw him.
“Shut up! They’ll be sorry!” he shouted in impatient rage.
“Please forget that girl,” said Hanash with combined gentleness and determination. “If you don’t, we’re dead.”
Arafa was silent for several moments, looking at the floor and thinking. When he lifted his face, it was sullen with dreadful certainty. “You’ll see me married to her, sooner than you think.”
“This is insanity itself.”
“And Agag will lead the wedding procession.”
“You’re dousing yourself with alcohol and throwing yourself in the fire.”
“I will retest the bottle in the desert tonight.”
He stayed at home, not going out for days, but kept up his relationship with Awatif by way of the barred window. When the period of mourning had ended, he met her secretly in the hall of her building.
“We should get married immediately,” he told her frankly.
The girl was not surprised at his request, but answered sadly, “If I accept, I’ll be causing you unbearable troubles.”
“Agag has agreed to give us a party. You know what that means,” he said confidently.
Steps were taken in total secrecy until everything was ready. The alley learned, without prior notice, that Awatif, daughter of Shakrun, had married Arafa the magician and moved into his house; that Agag, the protector of the Al Rifaa, had witnessed the wedding. Many of the people were stunned, and others asked how that could have happened—how Arafa had dared do it—how Agag had been persuaded to give his blessing. But the people who knew said, “We’re in for it now.”