The Harafish (7 page)

At night through the carved lattices the alley looked a gloomy place, haunted by wretched phantoms. “Divine wisdom is hard to comprehend,” muttered Ashur sadly.

“But God is generous to those he chooses,” Fulla answered defiantly.

Ashur smiled, wondering how long the dream would last, but she was thinking of other things.

“Look at all these precious objects around us,” she said. “They must be worth a lot. Why don't we sell some of them so that we can eat food more in keeping with our surroundings!”

“But it's other people's money,” he said gently.

“Nobody owns it. You can see that. It's God's gift to us.”

Ashur pondered for some time. Temptation stole over him like sleep over a weary man. He resolved to find a way out of the crisis and arrived at a new formulation. “Money is forbidden when it is spent on forbidden things,” he announced.

Eager to advance the debate, she said, “It's a gift, Ashur. We only want to eat.”

He began pacing the floor uncertainly. Finally he murmured, “It's all right as long as we spend it honestly.”

49
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With the passing of time their scruples eased and Ashur and his family took up permanent residence in the Bannan house. The donkey grazed in the courtyard at the rear and the cart was stowed away in the basement. Ashur swaggered about the house like a rich man, with an elegantly rolled turban, a flowing robe, and a gold-handled cane. Fulla blossomed in her new life of ease, the most beautiful notable's wife the alley had seen. Shams al-Din peed on the costly Shiraz carpets. From the gentle warmth of the kitchen floated the scents of grilled and roasted meats and spicy stews.

The days went by and life began to steal back into the alley. The harafish came to squat in the derelict buildings. Every day a new family moved in to an empty house. Shops began to open their doors. Life breathed again, the chill vanished, voices called to one another, dogs and cats appeared, the cock began to crow at dawn, and only the houses of the rich remained empty.

Ashur was known as the only notable in the neighborhood.
People greeted him respectfully, addressing him without irony as “Lord of the Alley.”

He was widely rumored to be the sole survivor of the plague and given the name Ashur al-Nagi, Ashur the Survivor. People were eager to sing his praises, seeing him as a good, kindly, and charitable man. He was the protector of the poor: not content with heaping alms on them, he bought donkeys, baskets, and handcarts and distributed them to the unemployed until only the old and the insane were without work.

They had never known a rich man like this before and they raised him to the ranks of the saints, saying God had singled him out and spared him for this purpose.

Ashur grew calm and his conscience eased. He began to fulfill dreams which had beguiled him in the past: he hired workers to clean the little square and the pathway and rid them of piles of dirt and rubbish. He built a trough for the animals, a drinking fountain, a small mosque, features which became as deeply embedded in the consciousness of our alley as the monastery, the archway, the graveyard, and the old city wall, and made it the jewel of the whole neighborhood.

50
.

The sound of unfamiliar activity from the direction of the bar caught his ear one day. He was on his way to the Husayn mosque and stopped dead in surprise. Builders were reconstructing the place, restoring it to life. He leaned through the doorway and called, “Who are you working for?”

“For me, sir,” came a voice from a dark corner to the right of the entrance and Darwish materialized before him from out of the gloom.

He was gripped by a violent shudder of shock and distaste, closely followed by a surge of anger. “So you're alive, Darwish,” he exclaimed.

Inclining his head gratefully, he said, “Thanks to you, Lord of the Alley.” Seeing that Ashur was in need of enlightenment, he
went on sarcastically, “I followed your advice and fled into the desert. I was quite close to you all the time.”

Ashur decided to take the bull by the horns. “I forbid you to reopen the bar,” he said.

“You might be lord of the alley and the only notable around, but you're not the law or the clan chief!”

“Why don't you go somewhere else? Anywhere but here?” demanded Ashur angrily.

“My home is here, Mr. Notable.”

They looked at each other in silence until Darwish said, “What's more, I expect to profit from your general munificence!”

Was he planning to fleece him? Trembling with anger, Ashur drew him outside and said, “Perhaps I can't close you down, but I warn you, I won't give in to threats.”

“I thought you helped anyone in need?”

“To do good, never harm.”

“You're free to spend your money as you want, of course,” said Darwish, emphasizing the “your” suggestively.

Ashur shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe you'll get the urge to expose me,” he said. “Maybe. But do you know what will happen to you if you do?”

“Threats, Ashur?”

“I'll batter you to a pulp, I swear by the head of Husayn. When they come to scrape you up, they won't know your head from your feet.”

“Are you threatening to kill me?”

“You know I'm quite capable of it!”

“Just to keep your hands on money that's not yours in the first place?”

“It's mine as long as I spend it on things that benefit people.”

Again they stared silently at each other. Weakness flickered in Darwish's eyes. “All I want is for you to give me handouts like you give the others,” he said pleasantly.

“Not a penny to people like you.”

A heavy silence descended.

“Well?” demanded Ashur impatiently.

“So be it,” murmured Darwish with regret. “Although we're brothers, we'll live side by side like strangers.”

51
.

Fulla received the news agitatedly, her sweet face sullen with misery.

“Use different tactics with him,” she pleaded. “Give him what he wants so we're not haunted by the specter of betrayal.”

“Didn't the desert air purge you of such weakness?” frowned Ashur.

She brandished her Damascus silk shawl at him. “This is what I'm afraid for.”

He shook his head crossly.

“We're not safe anymore, Ashur.”

“He's evil, but he's a coward,” replied Ashur with scorn.

52
.

The sun shone again after a cold, stormy night. The shop belonging to the sheikh of the alley opened its doors. The new sheikh was called Mahmoud Qatayif. The people sensed that the government was beginning to recover from the onslaught of death and destruction and replace those of its officers who had perished in the plague.

Many saw this as a good sign but the reaction was different in Ashur's household. Ashur was full of misgivings and Fulla, horrified, held Shams al-Din close to her and murmured, “Things look bad.”

“Surely what's past is past,” Ashur said worriedly.

“You're as frightened as I am, Ashur.”

“What have we done wrong? We found some money that didn't belong to anybody and spent it in a way which benefited the community.”

“But isn't that man threatening to harm us?”

Ashur's anger flared. “Let's trust in God,” he shouted. “He's the true owner of the money.”

Fulla cradled Shams al-Din in her arms. “All I want is for the river of bounty to flow on until this child can swim in it.”

53
.

Ashur decided to confront the threat without further delay. He went to introduce himself to the new sheikh, who received him warmly: “Welcome to our lord and protector.”

Joy filled Ashur's heart as he returned the greeting.

“Do you know, master,” went on the sheikh, “I was about to come and see you.”

Ashur's heart jumped but he said evenly, “You're welcome at any time.”

“I need to hear al-Nagi's version of events—the man best placed to tell me how the alley was wiped out.”

54
.

Thus Mahmoud Qatayif entered Ashur's house. The two men sat side by side on the divan in the reception hall, while Fulla hovered behind the half-open door. They sipped coffee and exchanged pleasantries, then the sheikh came to the point: “I need the opinion of the man the community regards as its benefactor.”

“I'm at your disposal,” replied Ashur unenthusiastically.

“A commission has been set up recently to make inventories of the houses of the rich…yours among them.”

“God have mercy on the souls of the dead.”

“We've discovered that a number of these houses have been looted.”

“But there wasn't a soul about!”

“The inventories show that looting has taken place.”

“How strange! I pray God the money went to those who deserved it.”

“Deserved it?”

“The poor, I mean.”

Mahmoud Qatayif smiled. “That's a theory, I suppose, but not one the government subscribes to.”

“What's their theory?”

“These houses are to be considered Treasury property and put up for auction.”

Ashur looked sharply at him. “What about the looting?”

Qatayif shrugged his shoulders. “The commission's decided to overlook it, to avoid accusing innocent people.”

Ashur realized that the looters were none other than the members of the government commission. Although he was disgusted, much of his confidence returned. He said jokingly, “Perhaps the commission is applying my theory, sheikh!”

“One problem remains,” said the sheikh regretfully.

Ashur looked inquiringly at him, still sure of his own position.

“The commission wants to examine the documents relating to your ownership of this house. Then it will have done its job.”

With one treacherous blow his sense of security was destroyed. For an instant his eyes met Fulla's behind the door.

“Do you have any doubts that I'm the legal owner?”

“God forbid! But orders are orders.”

“I want to know what's behind these orders,” he said in his hoarse voice.

“In neighboring areas there have been cases of people taking over houses that don't belong to them,” murmured the sheikh.

A silence, fraught with apprehension and doubt, enveloped the two men. Then Ashur suddenly spoke: “Supposing I'd lost them in the chaos of death and exile?”

“That would be extremely awkward,” muttered the sheikh uneasily.

“Awkward!” roared Ashur in anger. “Aren't they satisfied with what they've taken already?”

The sheikh trembled at the force of Ashur's voice. “I'm only carrying out orders,” he said apologetically.

“You must have more information. Tell me what you know.”

“The problem is that one of the members of the commission has some reservations.”

“To hell with him!”

“The documents would resolve all doubt.”

“They're lost.”

In a soft, fearful voice the sheikh said, “This will cause problems, Master Ashur.”

At this point Fulla burst furiously into the room. “That's enough beating about the bush,” she stormed at the sheikh.

The man rose to his feet in embarrassment. “You've got nothing to lose. Let's settle this between ourselves,” she said, her words as plain as a blow from a club.

“If it was only up to me, it would be easy,” said the sheikh sadly.

Ashur jumped up in annoyance. “Let's get it over with,” he said.

55
.

Things were going on both openly and behind the scenes which the alley, absorbed in its daily activities, never suspected. Few of its inhabitants could notice something without drawing conclusions. But their hearts, drunk with hope, trusted in the light which surrounded them.

One morning the giant figure of Ashur al-Nagi appeared in their midst in handcuffs, his head bowed. It was him; it couldn't be anyone else. Surrounded by soldiers with an officer at their head and Mahmoud Qatayif bringing up the rear.

Angry astonishment spread like sparks from a fire, drawing people from their shops and houses and bringing curious faces to fill the windows.

“What's going on?”

“What's happening to the world?”

“A saintly man like that in handcuffs!”

“Clear the way!” roared the officer.

But they flocked together at the rear of the procession, sticking to it like a shadow, until the officer shouted, “Anyone who comes near the police station will be in trouble.”

Darwish could not believe what he was seeing and in a loud voice, clearly intended for Ashur to hear, he said, “By my brother's life, I never said a thing!”

Fulla was a model of grieving beauty, with Shams al-Din on her hip and a bundle over her shoulder, her eyes red from weeping.

56
.

Ashur's trial was one of those events which sticks in the mind for years afterward. A huge crowd from the alley attended, following each twist and turn with beating hearts. For the first time they were united in their love and affection. Ashur stood in the dock, glowing with pride at the warmth round about him. Perhaps the judges admired his giant's body or leonine features; in any case the people would never forget the sound of his hoarse voice as he spoke in his own defense: “I am not a thief. I have never robbed anyone, believe me. Death had ravaged our alley. I returned from the desert to find it empty and abandoned. The house no longer had an owner. Isn't it fitting that it should be given to the sole survivor? And I didn't keep the money for myself. I thought of it as God's, and of myself as His servant entrusted with spending it to His greater glory. There are no starving or unemployed left in our alley and we want for nothing. We have a drinking fountain, a trough for the animals, a small mosque. So why have you arrested me like a common thief? Why do you want to punish me?”