In the wall facing the entrance, there is a small, wooden door which opens onto a grimy little outbuilding smelling of dirt and filth, for it has only one tiny window in the opposite wall overlooking the courtyard of an old house. About an arm’s length from the window there is a lighted lamp, placed on a shelf, throwing a dim light on the place, with its dirt floor covered with various and indeterminate rubbish; the room looks like a garbage heap. The shelf supporting the lamp is long and stretches the entire wall; on it are bottles, both large and small, various instruments, and a great number of bandages, making it look just like a pharmacist’s shelf, were it not so extraordinarily dirty.
On the ground, almost directly beneath the little window, something is piled, no different from the floor of the room in color, filthiness, or smell, but possessed of limbs, flesh, and blood, and which therefore, despite everything, deserves to be called a human being. It was Zaita, the man who rented this hole from the bakeress Husniya.
If you once saw Zaita you would never again forget him, so starkly simple is his appearance. He consists of a thin, black body and a black gown. Black upon black, were it not for the slits shining with a terrifying whiteness which are his eyes. Zaita is not a Negro; he is an Egyptian, brown-skinned in color. Dirt mixed with the sweat of a lifetime has caked a thick layer of black over his body and over his gown, which also was not originally black. Black was the fate of everything within this hole.
He had scarcely anything to do with the alley in which he dwelt. Zaita visited none of its people, nor did they visit him. He had no need for anyone, nor anyone for him. Except, that is, for Dr. Booshy and the fathers who resorted to scaring their children with his image. His trade was known to all, a trade which gave him the right to the title of “Doctor,” although he did not use it out of respect for Booshy. It was his profession to create cripples, not the usual, natural cripples, but artificial cripples of a new type.
People came to him who wanted to become beggars and, with his extraordinary craft, the tools of which were piled on the shelf, he would cripple each customer in a manner appropriate to his body. They came to him whole and left blind, rickety, hunchbacked, pigeon-breasted, or with arms or legs cut off short. He gained his skill by working for a long time with a traveling circus. Zaita had, moreover, been connected with beggar circles since his boyhood, when he lived with his parents, who were beggars. He began by learning “makeup,” an art taught in the circus, first as a pastime, then as a profession when his personal situation became worse.
One disadvantage of his work was that it began at night, or at midnight, to be exact. It was, however, a trivial disadvantage to which he had become completely accustomed. During the day, he scarcely left his den and would sit cross-legged, eating or smoking or amusing himself by spying on the baker and his wife. He delighted in listening to their talk, or peeping through a hole in the door and watching the woman beating her husband, morning and night. When night fell he saw them overcome with friendliness toward each other and he would see the bakeress approach her apelike husband and tease him and talk to him coyly. Zaita detested Jaada, despised him and considered him ugly. Apart from this, he envied him for the full-bodied woman God had given him as a wife, a really bovine woman, as he said. He often said of her that she was among women what Uncle Kamil was among men.
One reason why the people in the alley avoided him was his offensive odor, for water never found its way to either his face or his body. He happily reciprocated the dislike people showed for him, and he jumped with joy when he heard that someone had died. He would say, as though speaking to the dead person, “Now your time has come to taste the dirt, whose color and smell so much offend you on my body.” No doubt he spent much time imagining tortures he could inflict on people and found a most satisfying pleasure in doing just this. He would imagine Jaada, the baker, as a target for dozens of hatchets striking at him and leaving him a smashed heap. Or he would imagine Salim Alwan stretched on the ground while a steamroller ran over him again and again, his blood running down toward Sanadiqiya. He would also imagine Radwan Hussainy being pulled along by his reddish beard toward the flaming oven and being eventually pulled out as a bag of ashes. Or he might see Kirsha stretched beneath the wheels of a train, his limbs crushed, later to be stuffed into a dirty basket and sold to dog owners for food! There were similar punishments that he considered the very least people deserved.
When he set about his work of making cripples at their request, he was as cruel and deliberately vicious as he could be, cunningly employing all the secrets of his trade. When his victims cried out at his torture, his terrifying eyes gleamed with an insane light. Despite all this, beggars were the people dearest to him, and he often wished that beggars formed the majority of mankind.
—
Zaita sat thus engrossed in the wanderings of his imagination, waiting for the time for work to arrive. About midnight he got up and blew out the lamp; a deep darkness took over. He then felt his way to the door and, opening it quietly, he made his way through the bakery into the alley. On his way he met Sheikh Darwish leaving the café. They often met in the middle of the night without exchanging a single word. For this reason, Sheikh Darwish had a particularly rich reward awaiting him in the Court of Investigation to try mankind which Zaita had set up in his imagination!
The cripple-maker crossed over to the mosque of Hussain, walking with short, deliberate steps.
As he walked, Zaita kept close to the walls of the houses. In spite of the blackness of the shadows, some lights still gleamed; thus someone approaching would almost collide with him before seeing his flashing eyes glinting in the dark like the metal clasp of a policeman’s belt.
Walking in the street, he felt revived, lively, and happy. He only ever walked out here when no one but the beggars, who acknowledged his absolute sovereignity, were about. He crossed to Hussain Square, turned toward the Green Gate, and reached the ancient arch. As he swept his eyes over the heaps of beggars on both sides of him he was filled with delight. His joy was that of a powerful lord mixed with the delight of a merchant who sees profitable merchandise.
He approached the beggar nearest him, who sat cross-legged, his head bent on his shoulders and snoring loudly. He stood for a moment before him, gazing intently as though to probe his sleep and determine whether it was genuine or feigned. Then he kicked the disheveled head and the man stirred, but not in a startled manner, merely as though gentle ants had wakened him. He raised his head slowly, scratching his sides, back, and head. His gaze fell on the figure looking down on him; he stared up for a moment and, despite his blindness, recognized him at once. The beggar sighed and a noise like a groan rose from his depths. He thrust his hand into his breast pocket and withdrew a small coin and placed it in Zaita’s palm.
Zaita now turned to the next beggar, then the next, and so on until he had completely encircled one wing of the arch. Then he turned to the other wing and, when he finished there, he went around the niches and alleys surrounding the mosque, so that not a single beggar escaped him. His enthusiasm at receiving his dues did not make him forget his duty to care for the cripples he created and he frequently asked this or that beggar, “How is your blindness, So-and-so?” Or perhaps “How is your lameness?” They would answer him, “Praise be to God…praise be to God!”
Zaita now went around the mosque from the other direction and on his way bought a loaf of bread, some sweets, and tobacco and returned to Midaq Alley. The silence was complete, only broken from time to time by a laugh or cough from the roof of Radwan Hussainy’s house, where one of Kirsha’s hashish parties was in progress. Zaita made his way past the threshold of the bakery as quietly as he could, taking care not to waken the sleeping couple. He carefully pushed open his wooden door and closed it quietly behind him. The den was neither dark nor empty, as he had left it; the lamp burned and on the ground beneath it sat three men.
Zaita made his way unconcernedly toward them; their presence neither surprised nor troubled him. He
stared at them with piercing eyes and recognized Dr. Booshy. They all stood, and Dr. Booshy, after a polite greeting, said, “These are two poor men who asked me to seek your help for them.”
Zaita, feigning boredom and complete disinterest, replied, “At a time like this, Doctor?”
The “doctor” placed his hand on Zaita’s shoulder and said, “The night is a veil, and our Lord ordained the veil!”
Zaita protested, belching out air, “But I am tired now!”
Dr. Booshy replied hopefully, “You have never let me down.”
The two men begged and pleaded. Zaita yielded, as if unwillingly, and placed his food and tobacco on the shelf. He stood facing them, staring hard and long in silence. Then he fixed his eyes on the taller of the two. He was a giant of a man, and Zaita, amazed to see him there, asked, “You are an ox of a man! Why do you want to become a beggar?”
The man answered falteringly, “I am never successful at a job. I have tried all kinds of work, even being a beggar. My luck is bad and my mind is worse. I can never understand or remember anything.”
Zaita commented spitefully, “Then you should have been born rich!”
The man did not understand what he meant and attempted to win Zaita’s pity by pretending to weep, saying spiritlessly, “I have failed in everything. I even had no luck as a beggar. Everyone said I was strong and should work—that is, when they didn’t curse or shout at me. I don’t know why.”
Zaita nodded. “Even that you can’t grasp!”
“May God inspire you with some way to help me,” the big man pleaded.
Zaita continued to examine him thoughtfully and, feeling his limbs, said decisively, “You are really strong. Your limbs are all healthy. What do you eat?”
“Bread if I can get it, otherwise nothing.”
“Yours is really a giant’s body, there’s no doubt about it. Do you realize what you would be like if you ate as God’s animals eat, on whom He lavishes good things?”
The man replied simply, “I don’t know.”
“Of course, of course. You don’t know anything, we understand that. If you had had any sense you would be one of us. Listen, you oaf, there’s nothing to be gained by my trying to twist your limbs.”
A look of great melancholy came into the man’s bullish face, and he would have burst out weeping again if Zaita had not spoken. “It would be very difficult for me to break an arm or a leg for you, no matter how hard I tried. Even then, you wouldn’t gain anyone’s sympathy. Mules like you only arouse indignation. But don’t despair” (Dr. Booshy had been patiently waiting for this expression). “There are other ways. I’ll teach you the art of imbecility, for example. You don’t seem to lack any talent for that, so idiocy it will be. I’ll teach you some ballads in praise of the Prophet.”
The huge man’s face beamed with delight and he thanked Zaita profusely.
Zaita interrupted him. “Why didn’t you work as a highwayman?”
He replied indignantly, “I am a poor fellow, but I am good and I don’t want to harm anyone. I like everyone.”
Zaita commented contemptuously, “Do you wish to convert me to that philosophy?”
He turned to the other man, who was short and frail, and said delightedly, “Good material, anyway.”
The man smiled and said, “Much praise to God.”
“You were created to be a blind, squatting beggar.”
The man seemed pleased. “That is because of the bounty of our Lord.”
Zaita shook his head and replied slowly, “The operation is difficult and dangerous. Let me ask what you would do if the worst happened. Suppose you were really to lose your sight because of an accident or carelessness?”
The man hesitated, then replied unconcernedly, “It would be a blessing from God! Have I ever gained anything by my sight that I should be sorry to lose it?”
Zaita was pleased and commented, “With a heart like yours you can really face up to the world.”
“With God’s permission, sir. I will be eternally grateful to you. I will give you half what the good people give me.”
Zaita shot a penetrating look at him and then said harshly, “I am not interested in talk like that. I want only two milliemes a day, besides the fee for the operation. I know, by the way, how to get my rights if you are thinking of getting away without paying.”
At this point Dr. Booshy reminded him, “You didn’t remember your share of the bread.”
Zaita went on talking: “Of course…of course. Now, let’s get down to planning the work. The operation will be difficult and will test your powers of endurance. Hide the pain as best you can…”
Can you imagine what this thin and meager body would suffer under the pounding of Zaita’s hands?
A satanic smile played about Zaita’s faded lips…
The company’s premises in Midaq Alley produced a clamor which continued all day long. A number of workers carried out their jobs with only a short break for lunch, and there was a constant flow of goods in and out of the establishment, while large trucks rumbled noisily into Sanadiqiya Street and those adjoining Ghouriya and Azhar. There was also a steady stream of customers and tradesmen.
The company dealt with perfumes, wholesale and retail, and there was no doubt that the wartime cut in imports from India badly affected trade. However, the company managed to keep both its reputation and its position and, indeed, the war had doubled its activities and profits. The wartime situation convinced Salim Alwan of the wisdom of trading in commodities which previously had not interested him—for example, tea. Thus he had become active in the black market and profited heavily from it.
Salim Alwan always sat at his big desk at the end of the corridor leading off the central courtyard within the company premises, around which were the warehouses. Thus his position was central and he could observe all the activities of the company; he could easily watch his employees, the workmen, and the customers at the same time. For this reason he preferred this location to sitting alone in an office as most of his fellow businessmen did. He always maintained that a true businessman “must always keep his eyes open.”
He truly approached the absolute ideal of a man of business; he was expert in his trade and also able to keep things moving. He was not one of the “new rich” the war produced. Mr. Alwan was, as he put it, “a merchant and son of a merchant.” Previously, however, he was not considered rich; then the First World War had come along and he had emerged successful. This second war had so far been even more lucrative for his business and now he was very prosperous.
Salim Alwan was not without his worries; he felt he was fighting life without anyone to help him. True, his excellent health and vitality diminished these worries. However, he had to think of the future, when his life would end and the company would lose its director. It was unfortunate that not one of his three sons had come forward to help their father in his work. They were united in their efforts to avoid commerce and his attempts to dissuade them were useless. He had no other course—over fifty though he was—than to do the work himself.
No doubt he was responsible for this unhappy situation, for, in spite of his commercial mentality, he had always been kind and generous, at least in his own home and with his own family. His house was like a castle; handsome in appearance, with fine furniture and furnishings, and several servants. Moreover he had left his old house in Gamaliya for a fine villa in Hilmiya, raising his children in an atmosphere quite different from that of other merchants. This had no doubt instilled in them a contempt for merchants and trade. Unknown to their father, who was busy with his affairs, his sons had assimilated new ideals and standards, a result of their comfortable life and pleasant environment. When matters came to a head, they rebelled against his advice and even refused to enroll in the trade school, lest it be a snare for them. They had gone into law and medicine, and now one was a judge, the other an attorney, and the third a doctor at Kasr el-Aini Hospital.
In spite of this, Salim Alwan’s life was a ha
ppy one, as was shown by his plump body, chubby pinkish face, and youthful vitality. His happiness stemmed from an inward contentment; his business was profitable, his health excellent, his family happy, and his sons successful and contented in their chosen professions. Besides his sons, he had four daughters who were all happily married. Everything would have been perfect had he not occasionally had uneasy thoughts about the fate of his company.
In time, his sons became aware of their father’s concern but they viewed the matter from quite another angle. They feared that the reins would someday slip from their father’s fingers, or that he would hand them over to his sons and they would be helpless. And so his son Muhammad Salim Alwan, the judge, had suggested that he liquidate his company and enjoy a hard-earned rest. The father was quick to realize his son’s true fears and did not attempt to hide his indignation. “Do you want to inherit what I have while I am still alive?” he had shouted.
His father’s comment shocked the son, for he and his brothers had a genuine love for their father and none wanted to broach this delicate subject. However, the matter did not end there and they continued to point out—confident that they would now not incite his anger—that to buy land or build apartments would be better than keeping money in cash. Because he was perceptive in money matters, he realized the wisdom of their advice. He was well aware that his profitable business could perish in a reversal of good fortune. Alwan also knew that by buying real estate, for example, and registering it in the name of his sons or his wife, he would be able to get out of possible difficulties with a little money. He might even manage to keep quite a sum. He had heard of rich merchants who had ended up penniless or, worse, had committed suicide or died of grief.
Salim Alwan knew these things well and was aware his sons spoke wisely. He himself had already entertained such thoughts, but wartime conditions prevented him from putting them into action. That was clear and so the matter must be postponed; he would let it mature in his mind until he could accomplish it easily. But scarcely had he set aside this worry before his son the judge suggested that he should try and gain the title of “Bey.” His son pointed out, “How is it you are not a bey when the country is full of beys and pashas who have neither your wealth, reputation, nor position?”