“Don’t leave one of them alive!” yelled Ridwan the poet as loudly as he could.
The muddy water was now mixed with blood; Hammouda was the first to perish, though al-Laithy’s and Abu Sari’s wails were loud. Zaqlut’s hands clutched at the wall of the pit as he tried to spring out, and hatred gleamed in his eyes. He was beginning to overcome his weakness and exhaustion, and the moans he puffed out were like the lowing of cattle, but the clubs rained blows on him and his hands released the walls; he fell back and collapsed face up in the water, each of his fists clutching mud. Silence reigned over the pit, from which there was no movement or sound; its surface was colored with mud and blood. The men of Al Hamdan stood panting and watching. The gathering of people crowded around the entrance to the passage, staring bewilderedly into the pit.
“This is the punishment for oppressors!” shouted Ridwan the poet.
The news spread like fire throughout the alley. The crowds said that Gabal had destroyed the gangsters just as he had destroyed the serpents! Everyone hailed him in voices like thunder. Their fervor warmed their bodies; they paid no attention to the cold wind, and acclaimed him as the new leader of Gabalawi Alley. They demanded the gangsters’ bodies so that they might mutilate them; they clapped, and some even danced, but Gabal never for a moment stopped thinking. Everything was arranged in his head.
“Now, to the overseer’s house!” he shouted to his people.
41
In the moments preceding the exodus of Gabal and his people from the building, their spirits exploded like fierce volcanoes.
Women left their houses and joined the men. They all attacked the gangsters’ homes and assaulted the inhabitants with their hands and feet until they ran for their lives, clutching their cheeks and the backs of their heads, screaming and sobbing. All the furniture, food and clothing in the houses was swept away and everything breakable was smashed, the wood and glass especially, until the scene was one of garbage and rubble. The enraged crowds ran toward the overseer’s house and massed up against its locked gate, where one of them led the rest in waves of chanting as loud as thunder: “Bring out the leader! And if he doesn’t come—”
The shouts were followed by cheers and scornful applause. Some of them headed for the mansion to call on their ancestor, Gabalawi, to come out of isolation to correct the injustices they and the whole alley had suffered. Others banged at the overseer’s gate with their fists and shoved it with their shoulders, inciting the hesitant and respectful among them to help break it down. At this critical moment, Gabal appeared, leading the men and women of his family as they walked with determination and pride after the clear victory they had achieved. The people made way for them, cheering and trilling joyfully until Gabal motioned for them to be silent; the roar of their voices diminished slowly and gradually until there was silence, and once more they could hear the whipping wind whistling past their ears. Gabal looked around at their watchful faces.
“People of our alley, I salute you and I thank you.”
A second roar of voices rose until he raised his hand requesting silence.
“Our job will be complete only when you have dispersed peacefully.”
“We want justice, leader of our alley!” some of them shouted.
“Go in peace,” he said in a voice that each of them could hear. “The will of Gabalawi will be done.”
There was a burst of cheers for Gabalawi and his son Gabal, who stood there, his gaze prompting the crowd to disperse. They would have liked to stay where they were, but, caught in his gaze, they felt that they could only leave. They left, one by one, until the street was empty. At that point Gabal went to the overseer’s gate and knocked.
“Open, old Hassanain!” he called.
“The people—the people,” quavered the man’s voice.
“There is no one here but us.”
The door opened and Gabal stepped in, and his family entered behind him. They passed through the covered passage to the terrace and saw the lady standing dejectedly before the hall door. Effendi appeared at the threshold of the door, his head bowed, and his face so ashen that he might have been wrapped in a white shroud. They muttered among themselves at the sight of him.
“I’m in a terrible state, Gabal,” Huda wailed.
Gabal pointed scornfully at Effendi. “If the machinations of this disreputable man had succeeded, we would all be mutilated corpses by now.”
The lady sighed audibly in reply but said nothing.
Gabal stared harshly at the overseer. “Now you see how servile you are without strength or power, no gangster to protect you, no courage to guide you and no honor to intercede for you. If I were to stand aside and leave you to the people of our alley, they would tear you apart and trample you.”
A spasm of fear shook the man and he seemed hunched over and shrunken, but the lady took a step toward Gabal and spoke urgently. “All I want to hear from you are the gentle words I’m used to hearing. We are in a nervous state that deserves compassionate treatment from your honor.”
Gabal frowned to conceal how touched he was. “Had it not been for the respect I have for you, things would have gone very differently.”
“I don’t doubt that, Gabal. You are a man who does not let people down.”
“How much easier it would have been,” said Gabal sadly, “for justice to have been done before any drop of blood was shed!”
Effendi made a vague gesture that illustrated his feebleness and self-absorption.
“What’s done is done,” said the lady. “From now on you will find that we listen better!”
Effendi apparently wished to break his silence at any cost. “There is a chance of making good the errors of the past,” he said weakly.
All ear waited attentively, eager to discover the state of the tyrant whose power was gone. They watched him, gloating a little, disapproving and endlessly curious. Effendi was encouraged by his having spoken up, and went on. “Today you are truly worthy to occupy Zaqlut’s place.”
“I have no wish to be a criminal.” Gabal scowled. “Find someone else to protect you. I want only the full rights of the Al Hamdan.”
“They are yours without diminution, and you may manage the estate if you like.”
“You always wanted to, Gabal,” said Huda hopefully.
“Doesn’t the whole estate belong to us?” shouted Daabis from among the crowd of the Al Hamdan.
A murmuring sounded from the Al Hamdan, and the faces of the overseer and his wife turned as pale as death.
“Gabalawi commanded me to restore your rights, not to usurp the rights of others,” said Gabal in a stern and powerful voice.
“And who told you that the others won’t try for their rights?” asked Daabis.
“That is no concern of mine,” snapped Gabal. “You only hate tyranny when it’s used against you!”
“Yes, you are a noble man, Gabal!” cried the lady emotionally. ‘How I hope you will come back to my house!”
“I will live among the Al Hamdan,” said Gabal firmly.
“That’s not good enough for you!”
“When we come into our own, we will raise it up to be as good as the mansion itself—that is the wish of our ancestor Gabalawi!”
The overseer looked up at Gabal’s face with a trace of reluctance and asked, “Does what the people of alley have done today threaten our security?”
“What goes on between you and them is no concern of mine,” said Gabal dismissively.
“If you respect our covenant,” Daabis put in, “none of them will dare to challenge you.”
“Your rights will be restored, with witnesses!” said the overseer enthusiastically.
“You will dine with us this evening,” said Huda hopefully. “This is a mother’s wish!”
Gabal was aware of the meaning of this declaration of friendship from the overseer’s house, and he was unable to spurn it. “You will have your wish, lady,” he said.
42
The days that
followed shone with delight for the Al Hamdan, or the Al Gabal, as they were now called. Their coffeehouse opened its doors, and Ridwan the poet sat cross-legged on his bench to pluck the rebec’s strings. Liquor flowed in rivers, and huge clouds of hashish smoke rose to the rafters of every room. Tamar Henna danced until she was nearly thin. They thought nothing of saying outright who had killed Qidra, and lavished imaginative halos of light upon the tale of Gabalawi’s meeting with Gabal. For Gabal and Shafiqa these were the sweetest days of their lives.
“How wonderful it will be to have Balqiti live with us!” he told her.
“Yes,” said Shafiqa, who was suffering through the last months of a pregnancy, “so that he can give his blessing to his grandchild.”
“You are all my happiness, Shafiqa,” said Gabal gratefully. “Sayida will find a good husband among the Al Hamdan.”
“Say Al Gabal like everyone else does—you are the best man this land has ever known.”
“Adham was better than all of us.” He smiled. “How he yearned for a good life where a man would have nothing to do but sing. But his great dream will be realized for us.”
He saw Daabis dancing drunkenly amidst a crowd of the Al Gabal, and when Daabis saw him approaching he shook his club exuberantly. “You don’t want to be a gangster? I’ll be the gangster!”
“There will be no gangsters among the Al Hamdan,” Gabal shouted loudly enough for everyone to hear. “But they must all be tough against anyone who turns against them.”
Gabal walked to the coffeehouse and everyone followed him, stumbling from drunkenness. Gabal was delighted.
“In all this alley, you people are the most beloved of your ancestor,” he told them. “You are the undisputed masters of the alley, so let love, justice and respect prevail among you, and no crime will ever be committed among you.”
Drumming and singing could be heard from the homes of the Al Hamdan, and lights from parties of rejoicing shone throughout their nieghborhood, while the rest of the alley was sunk in its usual darkness, while its young people gathered at the outskirts of the Al Hamdan neighborhood to watch from afar. Then some somber-faced men of the alley showed up at the coffeehouse, where they were received warmly, invited to sit down and given tea. Gabal surmised that they had not come solely for courtesy, and he was proven right by the words of Zanati, the oldest of the visitors.
“Gabal, we all share one alley and one ancestor, and today you are master of this alley and its strongest man. It would be better for justice to prevail in all the neighborhoods, instead of in the Al Hamdan neighborhood alone.”
Gabal said nothing, and disinterest showed in the faces of his people. “It is in your power to bring justice to the whole alley,” the man persisted.
Gabal had never been interested in the others of the alley, and neither had his people, who had felt superior to them even in the days of their affliction.
“My ancestor entrusted me with my own,” said Gabal gently.
“But he is the ancestor of us all, Gabal.”
“There are different opinions about that,” said Hamdan. He looked at their faces carefully to see the effect of his words, and saw that they looked even more depressed. “He acknowledged our relationship with him through the meeting in the desert!”
For a moment Zanati looked as if he wanted to say, “There are different opinions about that,” but he was too demoralized to say it. He asked Gabal, “Does our poverty and shame please you?”
“No,” said Gabal without enthusiasm. “But it has nothing to do with us.”
“How does it have nothing to do with you?” insisted the man.
Gabal wondered by what right this man spoke to him this way, but he did not get angry. He found that part of him almost felt sympathy for the man; but another part of him disapproved of getting involved in new troubles for the sake of others—and who were these others?
Daabis provided the answer when he shouted at Zanati. “Have you forgotten the way you treated us in the time of our affliction?”
The man lowered his gaze for a moment before speaking. “Who was able to state his opinions, or make his sympathies public, when the gangsters ruled? Did the gangsters spare anyone who didn’t treat people the way they wanted them to be treated?”
Daabis curled his lip arrogantly to show his skepticism. “You envy us because of who we are in this alley, and you always have, even before there were any gangsters!”
Zanati bowed his head despondently and said, “God forgive you, Daabis!”
“Be grateful to Gabal for not turning against you out of revenge!”
Torn by conflicting thoughts, Gabal took refuge in silence; he was wary of offering help, but did not want to refuse openly. The men saw that they were contending with angry rebuke from Daabis, an ominous silence from Gabal and cold stares from the eyes of the others. They rose from the table in disappointment, and went back to where they had come from. Daabis waited until they had disappeared, then made a crude, gesture with his right fist and shouted, “Tough luck, you pigs!”
“Gloating is beneath our dignity!” snapped Gabal.
43
It was a memorable day, the day Gabal received his people’s share of the estate. He seated himself in the courtyard of the house—the scene of his triumph—and summoned the Al Hamdan to him. He counted the number of individuals in each family and distributed the money equally among them, and he did not treat himself any differently.
Perhaps Hamdan was not completely content with this equality, but he expressed this feeling indirectly. “It is not justice to cheat yourself!” he told Gabal.
“I took two shares, mine and Shafiqa’s,” said Gabal, frowning.
“But you are the leader of this neighborhood.”
“A leader should not rob his people,” said Gabal so that everyone could hear.
Daabis looked as though he were waiting anxiously for an argument, then said, “Gabal is not Hamdan and Hamdan is not Daabis and Daabis is not Kaabalha!”
“You want to divide one family into masters and servants!” Gabal objected angrily, but Daabis stuck by his view.
“We have among us a coffeehouse owner, a wandering peddler, and a beggar—how can they be equal? I was the first one to defy the siege, and was chased by Qidra. I was the first to meet you in your exile, and the first to support you after that, when all our people were hesitant!”
“A man who praises himself is a liar,” shouted Gabal, whose anger was mounting. “By God, people like you deserve the suffering they get.”
Daabis wanted to keep arguing, but saw the fiery anger in Gabal’s eyes and desisted, leaving the courtyard without saying another word. That evening he went to bleary-eyed Itris’ hashish den and joined the others where they sat in a circle, smoked and mulled over his problems. He wanted to find a diversion, so he invited Kaabalha to gamble. They played ticktacktoe, and in less than half an hour he had lost his share of the estate money.
Itris laughed as he changed the water in the hashish pipe. “Bad luck, Daabis! It’s your fate to be poor, whether Gabalawi wants it or not.”
“Riches aren’t lost as easily as that,” Daabis muttered darkly; losing had obliterated his drugged daze.
Itris drew a breath through the pipe to check the amount of water in it, then said, “But they’re gone now, brother!”
Kaabalha carefully smoothed out the bills, then raised his hand to tuck them inside his shirtfront, but Daabis prevented him with one hand while gesturing with the other for Kaabalha to return the money.
“It’s not your money anymore,” snarled Kaabalha. “You have no right to it!”
“Let it go, you trash!”
Itris watched them uneasily and said, “Don’t fight in my house.”
“This trash isn’t going to rob me!” shouted Daabis, grasping Kaabalha’s hand even more tightly.
“Let go of my hand, Daabis, I didn’t rob you.”
“You earned it doing business, you mean?”
“Why di
d you want to gamble?”
Daabis slapped him hard and said, “My money, before I break your bones.”
Abruptly Kaabalha pulled his hand away, and Daabis, maddened with fury, jammed his finger into Kaabalha’s right eye.
Kaabalha screeched and jumped to his feet, covering his eye with his hands, leaving the money to fall into Daabis’ lap. He staggered with pain, then collapsed and began to writhe and wail in agony. The seated smokers looked around at him, while Daabis gathered the money and stuffed it back into his shirt.
Then Itris came close to him and spoke in an appalled voice. “You put his eye out!”
Daabis was frightened for a moment, then got up suddenly and went out.
Gabal stood in the courtyard of his triumph surrounded by a crowd of the men of Al Hamdan, anger pulsing in his eyes and the corners of his mouth. Kaabalha squatted with a bandage swathed tightly over his eye, and Daabis stood to bear Gabal’s fury in silence and fear.
Hamdan spoke softly to Gabal to soothe his anger. “Daabis will give the money back to Kaabalha.”
“Let him give him back his eyesight first!” shouted Gabal at the top of his voice.
Kaabalha wept.
“If only it were possible for sight to be restored,” said Ridwan the poet plaintively.
Gabal’s face was as dark as a thundering and flashing sky. “But it is possible to take an eye for an eye.”
Daabis stared apprehensively into Gabal’s face, and gave the money to Hamdan. “I had lost my mind from rage. I didn’t mean to hurt him!”
Gabal watched Daabis’ face wrathfully for long moments, then spoke in a terrible voice. “An eye for an eye, and the criminal loses.”
Looks of consternation were exchanged. Gabal had never been seen angrier than he was today, and events had proven the force of his anger, such as his outburst the day he had left his privileged home, and his fit the day he killed Qidra. Truly his wrath was extreme, and when he was angry nothing could deter him from satisfaction.