Naguib Mahfouz - Midaq Alley

"Let us ask God for success and happiness," said Umm Hamida, smiling.

When she got up to leave the two women embraced affectionately. Mrs. Afify accompanied her to the outer door of her flat and leaned on the banister as the matchmaker descended the stairs. Just before she disappeared from sight, Mrs. Afify called after her, "Thank you very much indeed. Kiss Hamida for me."

Then she returned again to her flat, her spirits soaring with new hope. She sat down and attempted to recall everything that Umm Hamida had said, sentence by sentence, word for word. Mrs. Afify was inclined to meanness but she would never allow this to stand in the way of her happiness. For a long time money had sweetened her loneliness; both what she kept in a bank and that which was carefully wrapped in neat bundles in her ivory casket. This money, however, would never compete with the fine man who was to become, with God's permission, her husband.

Would he be pleased with her photograph? she wondered. She flushed at the thought. She moved to the mirror, where she stood turning her head right and left, until she felt she had found her most attractive position; here she stopped and murmured to herself, "May God veil me."

Then she returned to the sofa, saying to herself, "Money covers all blemishes." Had not the matchmaker told her she was well off? And so she was! The fifties were not the years for despair and she still had a full ten years ahead of her. And many women of sixty could still be happy if only God were kind enough to keep them from illness. Why, marriage could certainly regenerate a faded figure, revitalize a listless body. She blinked suddenly and asked herself, "What will everyone be saying tomorrow?" She knew the answer and was aware that Umm Hamida would be in the foreground of those gossips. They would be saying that Mrs. Afify had gone out of her mind. They would say she was old enough to be the mother of this man of thirty whom she was about to marry. She knew also they would delight in estimating what it had cost to repair the damage time had wrought on her. No doubt they would probably gossip about many other things which were too humiliating to imagine. Let them say what they liked. Had their evil tongues ever stopped slashing her all the time she was a widow? Mrs. Afify shrugged and sighed, "Oh, God, save me from the evil eye!"

Suddenly she was struck by a comforting thought, which she immediately determined to act upon. That was to see Rabah, the old woman who lived at the Green Gate. She would ask for a good-luck charm and have her horoscope read. Now was the ideal time for both, she thought.

"What do I see? You are indeed a venerable man!"

Zaita made this pronouncement as he looked up into the face of an erect old man standing before him. To be sure, his cloak was in rags and his body emaciated, but it was as the cripple-maker had said, he had a most venerable appearance. His head was large, his hair white, and his face elongated. His eyes were peaceful and humble. His tall and distinguished bearing was that of a retired Army officer.

Zaita sat scanning him closely by the light of his dim lamp. He spoke again. "But you really look like such a dignified man. Are you sure you want to become a beggar?"

"I am already a beggar, but not a successful one," answered the man quietly.

Zaita cleared his throat and spat on the floor, wiping his lips with the hem of his black shirt before he spoke. "You are too frail to bear any great pressure on your limbs. In fact, it's not advisable to perform an artificial deformity after the twenties. You seem to think that a crippled body is just as easy to make as a real one. As long as the bones remain soft, I can guarantee any beggar a permanent deformity, but you are an old man with not long to live. What do you want me to do for you?"

He sat thinking. Whenever Zaita thought deeply, his mouth opened wide and his tongue quivered and darted to and fro like the head of a snake. After a while he suddenly blinked his eyes and shouted, "Dignity is the most precious type of deformity there is!"

"What do you mean, reverend sir?" asked the old man, somewhat perplexed.

Zaita's face clouded with anger as he shouted, "Reverend sir! Have you ever heard me reciting at burials?"

His anger had surprised the old man and he spread out his palms in a gesture begging forgiveness. "Oh no, God forbid… I was only trying to show my respect for you."

Zaita spat twice and his voice took on a proud tone. "The best doctors in Egypt can't do what I can. Did you know that making a person appear crippled is a thousand times more difficult than really crippling him? Why, to really cripple someone would be as easy for me as spitting in your face."

"Please don't be angry with me. God is most merciful and forgiving," pleaded the old man.

Zaita's irritation gradually subsided and he stared at the old man. At last he said, his voice still sounding somewhat unfriendly, "I said that dignity is the most precious deformity."

"How do you mean, sir?"

"Your distinction will ensure you great success as a beggar."

"My distinction, sir?"

Zaita drew out half a cigarette from a mug on the shelf. He then returned the mug to its place and lit the cigarette through the open glass of the lamp. He took a long puff, his bright eyes narrowing, and said quietly, "It isn't a deformity you need. No, what you need is even greater handsomeness and intelligence. Give your robe a good washing and somehow get yourself a secondhand tarboosh. Always move your body with grace and dignity. Casually approach people in cafes and stand aside humbly. Extend your palm without saying a word. Speak only with your eyes. Don't you know the language of the eyes? People will look at you in amazement. They will say that surely you are someone from a noble family who has fallen on hard times. They will never believe that you are a professional beggar. Do you understand what I mean? Your venerability will earn for you double what the others make with their deformities…"

Zaita asked him to try out his new role on the spot. He stood watching him critically, smoking his cigarette. After a while, though, Zaita scowled and said, "No doubt you've told yourself that there'll be no fee for me, since I've given you no deformity. You're free to do as you like, provided you beg in some other quarter, not here."

The old man protested his innocence and said in a hurt voice, "How could I think of deceiving the man who has made my fortune for me?"

At that the meeting came to an end, and Zaita led the old man to the street. He took him as far as the outer door of the bakery. On his way back, he noticed Husniya, the bakeress, squatting alone on a mat. There was no trace of Jaada, and Zaita always seized any opportunity to chat with Husniya. He wished to be on friendly terms with her and to express his secret admiration for her.

"Did you see that old man?" he asked.

"Someone wanting to be crippled, wasn't it?" she asked indifferently.

Zaita chuckled and told her the story. She laughed and cursed him for his devilish cunning. Then he moved toward the door leading into his den but stopped, turned, and asked her, "Where's Jaada?"

"In the baths," the woman answered.

At first Zaita thought she was making sarcastic fun of him for his notorious filth, and he looked at her warily. However, he saw that she was serious. Now he realized that Jaada had gone to the baths in Gamaliya, a thing he did twice yearly. That meant he would surely not be back before midnight. He told himself there was no harm in sitting down and chatting with Husniya for a while.

He was encouraged by the obvious delight she took in his story. He sat on the threshold of his door, leaning back and stretching his legs like two thin sticks of charcoal, deliberately ignoring Husniya's astonishment as he did so. As the owner of his small room, she had only exchanged greetings when he entered or left. Apart from that she treated him as she did everyone else in the alley. She never thought the landlady-tenant relationship would change. She had not the slightest notion that he made a point of observing the most intimate details of her life. In fact, Zaita had found a hole in the wall between his room and the bakery; this served his curiosity and provided substance for his lecherous dreams.