“True enough, if he has asked for her hand, but not if she has asked for his,” Hassan sarcastically replied. “Spare us your philosophy, which does nothing to fill a hungry stomach. I assure you there is nothing shameful in accepting this present. Ahmad Bey Yousri used to bring presents to us in the seasons. And why has that son of a bitch forgotten us this year? He is not a faithful man. But Farid Effendi is, and we should accept his present if we want to be courteous. I assure you that if there had been anything undignified about it, I would have been the first to decline his present.”
“Imagine what they’ll say about us!” Hussein said gloomily.
“Imagine the meat roasting on the fire, the delicious odor permeating the house.”
Hassanein turned to his mother. “What do you intend to do?”
“I have no choice but to accept,” she answered without looking at him.
Silence prevailed, not only because none of them dared to object but also because accepting saved them from the conflict raging within themselves between their sense of wounded pride and their desire to enjoy the delights and pleasures of the feast day. Besides, they had great confidence in their mother’s judgment, as though she were infallible, and they told themselves that if she accepted the present, that meant there must be no harm in accepting it. Or so they told themselves as a way out of their quandary. Samira felt particularly upset. The only possible consolation to her came from the fact that Farid Effendi, with his persistence and warmth of friendship, had obliged her to accept the present. She was glad that Nefisa had brought up the subject, and had hoped that her sons’ approval would give her solace. But when her two important sons objected, it only increased her pain, and so her declaration that she had accepted the present amounted to a confession of her own guilt. It pained her more and more to see her children enjoying food only on feast days, like the poor folk who used to come to them and others asking for charity. Their condition was progressively deteriorating, and God only knew where that deterioration would take them!
Reassured, Hassan saw no harm in philosophizing. “Once the Prophet accepted a present from a Jew. So, can Farid Effendi be worse than a Jew?” he sermonized.
“Who said that?” Hussein asked in astonishment.
“History.”
“Which history?!”
“I thought they taught you everything at school,” Hassan shouted.
“Tell us about the history you have learned in the streets,”
Hassanein retorted sharply.
Hassan pretended to be angry. “I swear by the majesty of God, if you had not been the cause of the present, I would have broken your head. However,” he added, “they should have presented us with a whole sheep, and not just half a one.” Then he turned to Nefisa and said, “Be careful not to accept the present unless it contains half the sheep’s liver, too.”
THIRTY
They stood face to face waiting for the tram to arrive. She was dressed in her old overcoat, which she wanted to replace with a better one, even if she had to get it secondhand. He was wearing a suit which obviously didn’t fit him very well, and he was visibly nervous as he tried to screw up the courage to say something that had been weighing heavily on him. He was afraid the tramcar might come before he was able to speak his mind.
“Nefisa, I am very ashamed to tell you something,” he said.
“What is it?” she asked.
“My father ordered me to accompany him today on his visit to the Sheikh of the Al Shazliah sect. I refused, and he got angry,” he whispered.
She felt inexplicably fearful, perhaps because of the mention of his father. Expecting to hear unpleasant news, she looked at him, silent and inquiring.
“He got angry at my obstinacy and refused to pay me my wages for the day.” He was whispering again.
Astonishment overcame her fear, and she asked him, “Don’t you have any money?”
“No. My father is a tyrant. May God take his life.”
She said “Amen” to herself. “I have some money.”
Anxiously, he remained silent for a few moments.
“Are you going to pay the tram fare for both of us in front of the other passengers?” he asked her in embarrassment.
She understood what he was hinting at, and, her heart softening, she opened her handbag and took out five piasters for him. Carefully watching the people standing nearby, he took the money.
“Thank you. I will pay it back the next time we meet,” he said. “Or,” he added after some hesitation, “you can take the equivalent in sweets or cheese.”
“Aren’t you afraid your father might notice that I’m not paying for what I’m buying?” she inquired.
“He doesn’t see further than his nose,” he said, laughing.
The tramcar to Rod el-Farag arrived. They got on board and sat near each other.
How can I squander money like this, she thought, when our home is badly in need of every millieme that I earn? My mother is still selling some of the furniture. Even my brother Hassan needs these piasters more than this hard-up young man. What am I doing with myself? I also squander my money on powders and lipstick. Oh! He is not a man. If he were, he would never be tied to his father’s apron strings in this ridiculous fashion, and he would not fear him so much. The old man is treating him like a child, depriving him of his pocket money. But I love and want him. I am body and soul to him. I have no one else in this world. Why should I have such a self-torturing soul?
She heard him whisper in her ear, “It’s a real pity that my mother has returned from her visit to my sister. So the flat is no longer empty.”
She knew this perfectly well, and needed no one to remind her of it. However, she felt pleased that he had brought up the subject. Her flesh experienced a wakefulness, and her imagination became active. She remembered their lovemaking, the total darkness and whispering voices. She remembered all this in a heat of passion mixed with fear. She did not like to comment on what he said, and so, shyly, she ignored it, but her face flushed, her makeup standing out. She remembered his words: “My mother returned and my father does not approve!” When will all this come to an end? she thought. When shall I have him without fear, and according to God’s law?! Sometimes she felt so stricken with fear that she yearned for the peace of death.
“But I shall find other opportunities, and once more we’ll have the flat to ourselves,” his whispering voice said to her.
“No. No. There is no need for that,” she said coldly.
“God forgive you. Have you forgotten? Have you really forgotten? We shouldn’t burn with unsatiated desire while we are waiting. I hate waiting.”
Wouldn’t it have been better for me to wait? Nefisa wondered, and she kept wavering back and forth, unable to decide, thinking first yes, then no, then reversing herself, over and over again. As she sighed, perplexed at it all, her familiar feelings of despair returned.
“I don’t like waiting, either,” she said. “But I also don’t like what we have done.”
“That’s a lie. You do like it. Have you forgotten? You couldn’t have,” he said slyly.
“I remember nothing.”
“I shall never forget it as long as I live. You were very passionate and lively, and I still feel your heat scorching me.”
“Hush. You must be mad.”
“However, we shall manage to find some empty dark back street.”
“Beware. Your sight is as weak as your father’s. You may think the road is empty, when the policeman is right before your eyes.”
“Then let us depend on your eyes.” He hesitated a moment, and sighed, “When will we be able to marry?”
She was at once pained, irritated, and embarrassed by his query, and her emotions cooled and her face remained sullen for the rest of the journey.
THIRTY-ONE
It was midnight. There were only a few customers at the Al Gamal café, which was now almost empty. Hassan’s companions had left and he was sitting alone at a table. The piasters he
had managed to gain from them were safely tucked in his pocket. As though deep in thought, he cast a languid look about the café with his tired eyes. The owner of the café began to check his daily accounts, heaping the metal counters on a large tin plate, while the waiter stood leaning against one of the door panels, his hand in the pocket of his apron, temptingly jingling the coins inside it. Hassan’s thoughts rambled off. My father, may the mercy of God be on you. How much I have suffered since your death! We never ceased to quarrel and sometimes I felt I hated you. But your days are gone! Since your death, I haven’t taken a meal at home except on the feast days. And what do they eat at home? I eat nothing but beans. Beans. Always beans. Even donkeys get a change in diet. Maybe I really should seriously search for a job.
He remembered that he had tried his luck twice and that each time had ended in a quarrel that almost sent him to jail. No. Such trivial jobs were not his aim. He still preferred the life of a vagabond and mean gambler. In fact, he lived by stealing. He and his coterie knew this perfectly well. They would ensnare the new customers at the café and give them the illusion that they were playing a fair game of cards. But the truth was that they were stealing from them. It was a hard, risky life for the sake of a few piasters. How could he be satisfied with this kind of life? He was neither happy nor contented. He seemed to be waiting for a miracle to save him from the depths his life had reached and take him to a land of dreams. On the whole, his life was as violent and as savage as the murderous drug he was taking. Jobless though he was, he remained a leader among his company, because he could strike awe and fear in their hearts. Thus, he found it unbearable to start a new life as a simple and obedient worker, even though he was fully aware of how much his mother needed him to develop a serious attitude toward life. He still heard her afflicted and complaining voice humming in his ears, never ceasing to chase him whenever he came out of the stupor of drugs. He loved his mother and family. But he did not exert the slightest effort; he kept waiting inertly for something to happen, and remained at the bottom of the ladder, doing this donkey work for the sake of a few piasters. To him, this seemed a folly even worse than…
“Good evening, Mr. Hassan,” came a voice in greeting.
Emerging from the mist of his thoughts, he raised his head to see Master Ali Sabri sitting in front of him, calm and proud.
“Good evening, Master,” Hassan cried, his heart full of delight.
The so-called master summoned the waiter and ordered a nargileh. Then he turned to Hassan.
“I have decided that we should work together. I want you to join my band,” he said at once.
Hassan’s eyes, opening wide, suddenly glistened. Working for the master’s music band was the only thing he liked, not because he was aesthetically disposed to this kind of work, but because it was light, pleasurable, and usually associated with the fragrance of liquor, drugs, and women’s perfume. Though he never expected much from Ali Sabri, he thought the offer was better than nothing. Perhaps it would lead to other things. Who could tell?
“Do you mean it, Master?” Hassan said.
“Sure.”
“Will we be working in a music hall or a café?”
“Maybe one day soon we’ll have a place at the broadcasting station. But for the time being, we’ll be playing at weddings,” the master said, passing his long, lean fingers through his unruly hair.
Hassan’s enthusiasm died. Had he been dealing with anybody other than Ali Sabri, on whom he still pinned some hope, he would have given him a stunning blow and sent him flying head over heels. He had actually worked with him at a few family parties in return for supper and a twenty-piaster piece, but only a few times a year. There was nothing new in this. Yet he felt a hidden motive behind this offer, and new hope stirred in his breast. He feigned delight.
“There is no doubt,” he said, “that you will one day occupy the place you deserve. Your voice is superior to that of Abdul Wahab himself.”
Ali Sabri grinned. “Which of the instruments of the band do you want to play?” he asked. “You told me that your late father was an excellent lute player.”
“I haven’t learned to play any instrument at all.”
“Not even the tambourine?”
“You tried me out as a Sannid, chanting refrains for you, and I think I’m the right man for the job.”
The master shook his head as he said, “As you like. Do you know many songs?”
“Yes. Mawawil, songs, and takatiqs.”
“How about a solo right now?”
At bottom, Hassan felt disdain for the pomposity of his companion, but he was determined to go along with him to the end. He was dreaming of one day becoming an independent singer, even in low popular coffeehouses. He waited until the waiter came back with the nargileh and the master enjoyed his first puffs.
“What would you say to my singing the Mawal ‘My Eyes, Why Are You Weeping?’ for you?” Hassan asked with a cough.
“Excellent.”
As best as he could, Hassan began to chant the Mawal in a low voice, while the other man kept moving his head forward and backward, pretending to be absorbed in the song. When Hassan finished he said, “For a Sannid, that’s more than enough, but I should like to hear you singing Hank, too. Do you know the song ‘How I Waited When I Lost Your Love’?”
Hassan coughed again, clearing his throat, his enthusiasm grew, and he began to sing with more zest. He sang without a pause to the end.
“Excellent. Excellent. Do you know the basic tunes, Sica, Biati, Hijaz, and so on?” the master asked.
Sure of the master’s ignorance of those tunes, Hassan answered, with extraordinary daring that others rarely exhibited. “Of course.”
“Chant the Laiali ‘Rast’ for me.”
He chanted the first Laiali that came to his mind.
“Bravo. Chant another—a Nahawound,” Ali Sabri said, shaking his head.
Hassan continued to sing, suppressing a feeling of inward sarcasm. The other man was following him, feigning attention. Suddenly, he looked meditative and seemed to have something important to say. Instinctively, Hassan was waiting for this moment. Perplexed, he wondered whether Ali Sabri wanted to appoint him to lead a fight. What did he want precisely?
“Your voice is good enough. But working for the band requires other talents and skills. Here we must be in complete agreement. For instance, you should know all about propaganda methods, too,” the master said.
“Propaganda!”
“Yes. You should, for example, speak highly of my art whenever an occasion arises. You should also persuade people to ask me to sing at their marriage ceremonies. You will get your reward, of course. When you are at a songfest held by another singer, you should criticize his voice and tell everyone around you how wonderful Ali Sabri would have been if he had been singing instead, and so on.”
“That’s easy. You can expect even more,” Hassan said with a smile on his face.
Ali Sabri paused for a moment, and then said, “You are a strong and daring young man, and you should exploit your talents to the utmost. But let me ask you one more question. Which narcotic most appeals to you?”
Hassan wondered what made him ask such a question. Did he want to offer him a present? Impossible. He was always ready to accept presents, and generosity was certainly not part of his personality. Or was he seeking his collaboration on an important task? His heart fluttered at such a thought. He had long dreamt of trafficking in narcotics. Yet, he decided to be wary and on his guard.
“I think narcotics harm the throat,” he said slyly.
Ali Sabri laughed. With a thunderous and powerful voice, he started to sing a Laiali.
“What do you think of that singing?” he asked when he finished.
“Peerless.”
Ali Sabri went on to say, “This is what comes of fifteen years of addiction to hashish, opium, and manzoul,* and five years of taking cocaine as well.”
“You don’t say!”
“Narcotics a
re the very lifeblood of vocalizing. Any singer worthy of the name is as much addicted to drugs as he is to such basic foods as molokhiva and fool mudammis.”
Hassan laughed. “Only if those drugs are available,” he said, surrendering.
“You are right. And it is as I thought. You don’t hate narcotics, but you have no access to them. Let me tell you, it is easy to turn rivers of water into rivers of wine, and mountains into mountains of hashish. You are both daring and strong. But I will be frank with you; I was very much afraid!”
“Of what?”
Ali Sabri gave a short laugh that revealed his yellow teeth. “Of all people,” he said, “I hate most those who say, ‘My morals won’t allow me to do this’ or ‘I have fear of God’ or those who fearfully ask, ‘What about the police?’ Now, are you one of them?”
Hassan smiled, feeling that he would be well rewarded for his long patience.
“I live in this world, assuming that there is no morality, God, or police,” he said.
Ali Sabri erupted in a powerful laugh that shook the café as much as his singing, and said, “Let’s spend the rest of the night at my place and continue our talk.”
Hassan agreed, hoping some profitable scheme would come of all this. His confidence never failed him for a single moment, but he had little faith in his interlocutor. However, he had not quite given up hope in him. Deep down, he felt that he would have to wait a long time before the earth, shaking underneath his feet, became stable once more.
* * *
*A cheap mixed drug.
THIRTY-TWO
Content with the light that shone from Hussein and Hassanein’s room, Nefisa and her mother were sitting in the hall when their friend and landlady paid them a visit. As befitted someone who had done such important services for Nefisa, they welcomed her warmly. She installed herself on the sofa between the two women and insisted that they need not turn on the hall light. She and Samira entertained themselves with conversation while Nefisa went to the kitchen to make some coffee for their guest.