This opinion horrified Radwan Hussainy and he commented in amazement, “What a dreadful opinion that is! Do you think people envy that filthy practice?”
Kirsha burst out laughing and said spitefully, “Have not a single doubt of the truth of what I said! They are a hopeless crowd. Wouldn’t it do them more good to look into their own souls?” At this point he realized that he had admitted the accusation by making so little attempt to refute it. He continued: “Don’t you know who that boy is? He is a poor boy whose poverty I am trying to alleviate by being charitable to him.”
Hussainy was annoyed at the man’s equivocation and he shot him a glance as though to say, “Do you really expect me to believe that?”
“Mr. Kirsha,” he said, “it seems you don’t understand me. I am neither judging you nor reproaching you; we are both poor sinners in need of God’s mercy and forgiveness. Don’t deny it. If the boy is poor, then leave him in the care of his Creator. If you want to do good, the world is full of unfortunate people.”
“Why can’t I do good for this boy? It hurts me that you don’t believe me. I am an innocent man.”
Hiding his displeasure, Radwan Hussainy looked at the near-black face before him and said pointedly, “This boy is immoral and has an evil reputation and you have made a mistake in trying to deceive me. It would have been far better if you had taken my advice and told the truth in speaking with me.”
Kirsha knew that Hussainy was annoyed, although it did not show on his face. He took refuge in silence, bottled his anger, and thought of leaving, but Hussainy was still talking: “I am appealing to you for your own good and the good of your home. I will not despair of drawing you back to decent behavior. Give up this boy; he is just filth created by Satan. Turn in repentance to your Lord; He is full of mercy and forgiveness. Even if you were once a good man, you are now a sinner. Though you are successful now, you will eventually lose everything by wallowing in filth. You will end up lonely and penniless. What do you say?”
Kirsha had finally made up his mind to avoid being openly obstinate. He told himself that he was free to do as he wished and that no one, not even Radwan Hussainy himself, had any authority over him. However, not for a moment did he consider making Hussainy angrier nor would he challenge him in any way. He lowered his eyebrows over his gloomy eyes and disguised his real feelings by saying, “It is God’s will.”
Distress showed on Hussainy’s benevolent face and he said sharply, “No, it is the will of the devil! Shame on you!”
Kirsha muttered, “When God shows the true path!”
“If you don’t obey the devil, then God will lead you to your salvation. Leave this boy or let me get rid of him in peace.”
This annoyed Kirsha and anxiety flooded him so that he could no longer disguise his feelings.
“No, Mr. Hussainy, don’t do that,” he said in a determined tone of voice.
Hussainy looked at him in disgust and scorn and said regretfully, “Can’t you see how wickedness prevents you from finding salvation?”
“It’s up to God to lead us.”
Finally despairing of reforming him, Hussainy said, “For the last time I am asking you to leave him or let me get rid of him in peace.”
Kirsha, leaning out from the edge of the sofa as if about to get up, insisted stubbornly, “No, Mr. Hussainy. I appeal to you to let this matter rest until God shows the path…”
Hussainy was astonished at his insolent stubbornness and asked weakly, “Doesn’t your lust for this filthy conduct make you ashamed?”
Kirsha, tired of Hussainy and his preaching, got up. “All men do many things that are dirty and this is one of them. So leave me to find my own path. Don’t be angry with me and please accept my apologies and regrets. What can a man do to control himself?”
Hussainy smiled sadly and rose too, saying, “A man can do anything if he wants to. You just don’t understand what I said. The matter is in God’s hands.” He extended his hand. “Goodbye.”
Scowling and muttering to himself, Kirsha left the flat, cursing people in general and particularly Midaq Alley and Radwan Hussainy.
Mrs. Kirsha waited, patient and motionless, one day and then two days. She stood behind the shutters of her window overlooking the café and watched for the boy’s arrival. She would see him swagger past during the day and then, at midnight, he would appear once again, this time with her husband, going off toward Ghouriya. Her eyes would turn white in loathing and rage and she asked herself whether Radwan Hussainy’s advice had gone unheeded. She visited him once again and he shook his head sadly, saying, “Leave him as he is until God works His inevitable will.”
She had returned to her flat seething with anger and plotting her revenge. Mrs. Kirsha no longer worried about the slander of the gossips, and now she waited at her window for night to fall. Eventually the boy arrived and, wrapping herself in her cloak, she ran from the flat like a madwoman. She bounded down the stairs and, in a moment, was in front of the café. All the shops had closed and the alley people were gathered in the café, as was their evening custom.
Kirsha himself was bent over the till, apparently in a daze. He did not notice her arrival. Her quick gaze fell on the lad, who was sipping tea. She passed in front of her husband, who did not raise his eyes, and approached the boy. With one blow of her hand she knocked the cup from his grasp and the tea fell into his lap. He jumped up screaming in fright and she shouted at him in a voice like thunder, “Drink your tea, then, you son of a whore!”
The eyes of all present, some people from the alley and some who did not know her, stared fixedly at the woman. Kirsha, who looked as though cold water had been hurled in his face, made a motion toward her as if to get up, but his wife pushed him in the chest, seating him once more. Mrs. Kirsha screeched into his face, her rage making her scarcely aware of what she said, “Just you try and move, you filthy wretch!”
She turned once more toward the boy and went on: “What has frightened you, you clever fellow? You woman in the clothes of a man! Would you like to tell me what brings you here?”
Kirsha was now standing behind the till, his anger having locked his tongue, his face pale with fury. She shouted in his face, “If you are thinking of defending your ‘friend,’ then I will smash your bones to pieces in front of everyone!”
She moved threateningly toward the youth, who retreated until he reached Sheikh Darwish. “Do you want to ruin my home, you rake and son of rakes!”
The youth, trembling violently, answered, “Who are you? What have I done so as to…”
“Who am I? Don’t you know me? I am your fellow wife…”
She fell upon him, punching and slapping him forcefully. His tarboosh fell off and blood flowed from his nose. She then grasped his necktie and pulled it till his voice trailed off in a strangled gasp.
All the customers in the café sat stunned, gaping wide-eyed in amazement at the spectacle. They thoroughly enjoyed witnessing such a dramatic scene. Mrs. Kirsha’s yelling soon brought Husniya, the bakeress, racing to the spot, closely followed by her husband, Jaada, his mouth open. Then, after a moment or two, Zaita, the cripple-maker, appeared; he remained standing a little way off, like a small devil the earth had belched forth. Soon all the windows of the alley’s two houses were flung open, heads peering down at them. Kirsha watched the boy twisting and writhing in pain, trying to free his neck from the woman’s strong grip. He charged toward them, literally foaming at the mouth like an enraged stallion. He grasped his wife’s two arms, shouting in her face, “Leave him alone, woman, you have caused enough scandal!”
Her husband’s strong grip forced Mrs. Kirsha to release her rival. Her cloak fell to the ground and her blood was now boiling. Her voice rose in a shrill scream as she grasped her husband by the collar and yelled, “Would you hit me to defend your friend, you animal? Bear witness, all you people, against this lecherous villain!”
The boy grasped this opportunity to escape and streaked from the café, scared out of his wits
. The battle between Kirsha and his wife continued, she holding tightly to his collar and he trying to free himself from her grasp. At last Radwan Hussainy came between them and ended their struggle. Mrs. Kirsha, panting for breath, wrapped herself in her cloak and, shouting in a voice loud enough to crumble the walls of the café, addressed her husband: “You hashish addict! You nincompoop! You filthy lout! You sixty-year-old! You father of five and grandfather of twenty! You bastard! You dumb oaf! I feel like spitting in your dirty, black face!”
Mr. Kirsha, quivering with emotion, stared at her in a fury and yelled back, “Hold your tongue, woman, and take away that toilet of a mouth of yours; you’re spraying us all with its filth!”
“Shut your mouth! You are the only toilet around here, you scarecrow, you disgrace, you rat bag!”
Shaking his fist at her, he shouted, “Raving as usual! What’s come over you, attacking my café customers like that?”
His wife gave a loud, hollow laugh. “Customers of the café? I beg your pardon! I did not mean any harm to your café customers. I wished to attack your lordship’s special customer!”
At this point Radwan Hussainy interrupted her again and begged her to let the matter rest and go back home. However, Mrs. Kirsha, a new note of determination in her voice, refused, saying, “I will never go back to the house of that filthy man as long as I live.”
Hussainy tried to insist and Uncle Kamil volunteered his help, saying in his angelic voice, “Go home, Mrs. Kirsha. Go home, put your trust in God, and take Mr. Hussainy’s advice.”
Hussainy tried to prevent her from leaving the alley and only left his position when she entered the house, grumbling and giving vent to her indignation all the way. At that Zaita disappeared, and Husniya, followed by her husband, left the scene. As they went off, she punched him in the back and said, “You’re always moaning about your bad luck and asking why you’re the only husband who is beaten! Did you see how even your betters are beaten?”
The turmoil of the battle left a heavy silence. The onlookers exchanged amused glances of malicious delight. Dr. Booshy was the most amused and delighted of all. He shook his head and said in tones of mock sadness, “There is neither might nor power but in God. May God do what He can to patch things up.”
Kirsha stood rooted to the spot where the battle took place. He now noticed that the boy had fled and he scowled in annoyance. Just as he was about to go and look for him, Radwan Hussainy, who stood not far away, placed his hand on his shoulder and said quietly, “Sit down and rest, Mr. Kirsha.”
Kirsha snorted in anger and slowly took a step back, saying to himself, “The bitch! But it’s really my own fault. I deserve even worse than that. What a fool a man is who doesn’t use a stick on his wife!”
The voice of Uncle Kamil was once again heard as he said, “Put your faith in God, everyone.”
Kirsha flung himself back into his chair. Then indignation overcame him again and he began beating his forehead with his clenched fist and shouting, “In the old days I was a murderous ruffian. Everyone in this district knew me for the criminal I was, swimming in blood. I am a criminal, a son of a dog, a beast, but do I deserve everyone’s contempt because I reformed my evil ways?” He raised his head and went on: “Just you wait, you bitch! Tonight you are going to see the Kirsha of the old days!”
Radwan Hussainy clapped his hands together as he sat stretched out on the sofa and addressed Kirsha: “Put your faith in God, Mr. Kirsha. We want to drink our tea in peace and quiet.”
Dr. Booshy turned to Abbas and whispered in his ear, “We must bring about a reconciliation between them.”
“Between whom and whom?” the barber asked wickedly.
Dr. Booshy concealed his laugh as best he could, so that it issued like a hiss from his nose.
“Do you think he will come back to the café after what has happened?” he asked Abbas.
The barber pouted and replied, “If he doesn’t come back another one will.”
The café had now taken on its usual atmosphere and everyone played games or chatted as before. The battle was almost forgotten and it would have left no trace had Kirsha not burst out once again, shouting and roaring like a trapped beast, “No, no! I refuse to submit to the will of a woman. I am a man. I am free. I can do what I like! Let her leave the house if she wants to. Let her roam with the street beggars. I am a criminal. I am a cannibal!”
All of a sudden Sheikh Darwish raised his head and said, without looking toward Kirsha, “O Kirsha, your wife is a strong woman. Indeed, she has a masculinity which many men lack. She is really a male, not a female. Why don’t you love her, then?”
Kirsha directed his fiery eyes toward him and yelled into his face, “Shut your mouth!”
At this, more than one of those present commented, “Oh, even Sheikh Darwish now!”
Kirsha turned his back on the old man in silence and Sheikh Darwish went on: “It’s an old evil. In English they call it ‘homosexuality’ and it is spelled h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l-i-t-y. But it is not love. True love is only for the descendants of Muhammad. Come, my lady Zainab, granddaughter of the Prophet…come, madam…I am weak, O mother of weak ones.”
How his meetings in Azhar Street had changed life for Abbas! He was in love. A new fire burned within him, desire melting his nerves and intoxicating his brain. He felt gay and confident, like a carefree troubadour knight—or perhaps a tippler safe in a familiar bar.
They now met frequently and their conversations never failed to center on their future. Yes, they now planned their futures as one, and Hamida made no attempt to resist the idea, either in his presence or away from him. She often asked herself whether any of her factory girlfriends could hope for anyone better. She made a point of walking with him just at the time when they left work and she delighted in watching their curious glances and in seeing the impression he made on them. One day they asked her about the young man “whom they had seen with her” and she had replied, “He is my fiancé. He owns a barbershop.”
She asked herself which one of them would not consider herself lucky to become engaged to a café waiter or blacksmith’s apprentice. Indeed, he was the owner of a shop, definitely middle-class. Moreover, he wore a suit. She constantly made practical comparisons, but never allowed herself to be drawn into his magical world of dreams. Only occasionally and briefly was she emotionally moved and at these rare times she seemed to be truly in love.
On one such occasion he had wanted to kiss her and she had neither yielded nor refused. She longed to taste one of those kisses about which she had heard. He carefully noted the passersby while he felt for her mouth in the darkness of the evening and then placed his lips on hers, trembling violently as he did so. His breath engulfed her and her eyes closed tightly in ecstasy.
When the time for him to leave approached, he was determined to become engaged to her. He chose Dr. Booshy as his ambassador to visit Umm Hamida. The dentist’s profession gave him friendly access to all the homes in Midaq Alley. The woman was delighted to accept the young man, whom she saw as the alley’s only suitable husband for her daughter. Indeed, she had always thought of him as “the owner of a barbershop and a man of the world.” However, she feared the opposition of her rebellious daughter and foresaw a long and difficult battle with her. So Umm Hamida was truly astonished when her daughter accepted the news with mild resignation and even pleasure. Her daughter’s unexpected attitude caused her to shake her head and say, “This is what happened through that window, behind my back!”
Abbas commissioned Uncle Kamil to make a splendid dish of nut cake and send it to Hamida’s mother. He called on her accompanied by Uncle Kamil, his partner in his house and his life. Uncle Kamil had great difficulty in climbing the stairs and frequently had to stop gasping for breath to lean against the banister. At last, on the first landing, he commented jokingly to Abbas, “Couldn’t you have put off your engagement until you returned from the Army?!”
Umm Hamida greeted them warmly, and the three sat and ch
atted affably. Eventually Uncle Kamil announced, “This is Abbas Hilu, born and bred in our alley and a son of yours and mine; he wants Hamida’s hand in marriage.”
Her mother smiled and said, “Welcome to him indeed, the sweet boy. My daughter shall be his and it will be as though she had never left me.”
Uncle Kamil went on talking about Abbas and his fine qualities, about Umm Hamida and her fine qualities, and then he announced, “The young man, may God grant him success, is going away soon and he will become better off. Then the matter of the marriage can be concluded to our satisfaction and his, with the permission of Almighty God.”
Umm Hamida said a prayer for him and then turned jokingly to Uncle Kamil and asked, “And you, Kamil, when are you intending to marry?”
Uncle Kamil laughed so heartily that his face went red as a ripe tomato. He patted his enormous belly and said, “This impregnable castle of mine prevents that!”
They read the opening verses of the Qur’an, as was the custom at all engagement parties. Then refreshments were passed round.
The lovers’ last meeting took place in Azhar Street two days after this. They walked together in silence. Abbas felt warm tears seeking a path to his eyes.
She asked him, “Will you be away long?”
The young man answered sadly and quietly, “My period of service will probably last a year or two, but I am sure I will get a chance to come back before that.”
Suddenly feeling a deep tenderness for him, she whispered, “What a long time that is.”