Naguib Mahfouz: Midaq Alley

"Is a civil servant a god?" retorted Hamida defiantly.

Her mother sighed deeply and said, "If only you would stop being so conceited…"

The girl mimicked Umm Hamida's voice and replied, "If you would only be reasonable for once in your life."

"You eat and drink my food but you are never grateful. Do you remember all that fuss you made about a dress?"

Hamida asked in astonishment, "And is a dress something of no importance? What's the point of living if one can't have new clothes? Don't you think it would be better for a girl to have been buried alive rather than have no nice clothes to make herself look pretty?" Her voice filled with sadness as she went on: "If only you had seen the factory girls! You should just see those Jewish girls who go to work. They all go about in nice clothes. Well, what is the point of life then if we can't wear what we want?"

Her foster mother replied cuttingly, "Watching the factory girls and the Jewish women has made you lose your senses. If only you would stop worrying about all this."

The girl took no notice of what Umm Hamida said. She had now finished plaiting her hair and she took a small mirror from her pocket and propped it up on the back of the sofa. She then stood in front of it, bending down slightly to see her reflection. In a wondering voice, she said, "Oh what a shame, Hamida. What are you doing living in this alley? And why should your mother be this woman who can't tell the difference between dust and gold dust?"

She leaned out of the room's only window, which overlooked the street, and stretched her arms out to the open shutters, drawing them together so that only a couple of inches of space was left between them. She then sat resting on her elbows placed on the windowsill and gazed out into the street, moving her attention from place to place and saying as though to herself, "Hello, street of bliss! Long life to you and all your fine inhabitants. What a pretty view and see how handsome the people are! I can see Husniya, the bakeress, sitting like a big sack before the oven with one eye on the loaves and one on Jaada, her husband. He works only because he is afraid of her beatings and blows. Over there sits Kirsha, the cafe owner, his head bowed as if in a deep sleep, but he is really awake. Uncle Kamil is fast asleep, of course, while the flies swarm over his tray of unprotected sweets. Look there! That's Abbas Hilu peeping up at my window, preening himself. I'm sure he thinks that the power of his look will throw me down at his feet. You're not for me, Abbas! Well now, Mr. Salim Alwan, the company owner, has just lifted up his eyes, lowered them, and raised them once again. We'll say the first time was an accident, but the second, Mr. Alwan? Sir? Watch now, he's just started a third time! What do you want, you senile and shameless old man? You want a rendezvous with me every day at this time? If only you weren't a married man and a father, I'd give you look for look and say welcome and welcome again! Well, there they all are. That is the alley and why shouldn't Hamida neglect her hair until it gets lice? Oh yes, and there's Sheikh Darwish plodding along with his wooden clogs striking the pavement like a gong."

At this point her mother interrupted. "Who would make a better husband for you than Sheikh Darwish?"

Hamida remained looking out the window, and, with a shake of her behind, she replied, "What a powerful man he must have been! He says he has spent a hundred thousand pounds on his love for our lady Zainab. Do you think he would have been too mean to give me ten thousand?"

She drew back suddenly, as though bored with her survey. Now she moved in front of the mirror and, gazing into it searchingly, she sighed and said, "Oh, what a pity, Hamida, what a shame and a waste."

In the early morning Midaq Alley is dreary and cold. The sun can reach it only after climbing high into the sky. However, life begins to stir early in the morning in parts of the street. Sanker, the cafe waiter, begins activity by arranging the chairs and lighting the spirit stove. Then the workmen in the company office start coming in ones and twos. Presently Jaada appears carrying the wood for baking the bread. Even Uncle Kamil is busy at this early hour, opening his shop and then having his nap before breakfast. Uncle Kamil and Abbas, the barber, always have breakfast together from a tray placed between them containing plates of cooked beans, onion salad, and pickled gherkins.

They each approach their food in a different manner. Abbas devours his roll of bread in a few seconds. Uncle Kamil, on the other hand, is slow and chews each piece of food laboriously until it almost dissolves in his mouth. He often says, "Good food should first be digested in the mouth." So it is that Abbas will have finished eating his food, sipping his tea and smoking his pipe while his friend is still slowly munching his onions. Kamil, therefore, prevents Abbas from taking any of his share by always dividing the food into two separate sections.

In spite of his portly build, Uncle Kamil could not be considered a glutton, although he was very fond of sweets and extremely clever at making them. His artistry was completely fulfilled in making up orders for people like Salim Alwan, Radwan Hussainy, and Kirsha, the cafe owner. His reputation was widely known and had even crossed the boundaries of the alley to the quarters of Sanadiqiya, Ghouriya, and Sagha. However, his means were modest and he had not lied when he complained to Abbas that after his death there would be no money to bury him. That very morning he said to Abbas after they finished breakfast, "You said you bought me a burial shroud. Now that really is something that calls for thanks and blessings. Why don't you give it to me now."

Abbas, the typical liar, had forgotten all about the shroud. He asked, "Why do you want it now?"

His friend answered in his high-pitched adolescent voice, "I could do with what it's worth. Haven't you heard that the price of cloth is going up?"

Abbas chuckled. "You are really a shrewd one in spite of your fake simplicity. Only yesterday you were complaining that you hadn't enough money for a proper burial. Now that I have a shroud for you, you want to sell it and use the money! No, this time you won't get your way. I bought your shroud to honor your body after a long life, if God wills."

Uncle Kamil smiled in embarrassment and shifted his chair nervously. "Suppose my life lasts so long that things get back to the way they were before the war? Then we'll have lost the value of an expensive shroud, don't you agree?"

"And suppose you die tomorrow?"

"I hope to God not!"

This made Abbas roar with laughter. "It's useless to try to change my mind. The shroud will stay in a safe place with me until God works His will…" He laughed again so loudly that his friend joined in. The barber now spoke teasingly. "You're completely without profit for me. Have I ever managed to make a penny out of you in your whole life? No! Your chin and upper lip simply don't sprout and your head's quite bald. On all that vast world you call your body there's not a single hair for me to cut. God forgive you!"

"It's a fine clean body which no one would mind washing down," said Uncle Kamil with a mock seriousness.

The sound of someone yelling interrupted them. Down the street they saw Husniya, the bakeress, beating her husband, Jaada, with her slippers. The man collapsed in front of her, offering no defense at all. His wails reverberated from each side of the alley and the two men laughed uproariously.

"Have forgiveness and mercy on him, madam!" shouted Abbas loudly.

The woman continued pummeling him until Jaada lay at her feet weeping and begging forgiveness.

"Those slippers could do your body some good," said Abbas, turning to Uncle Kamil. "They'd soon melt that fat away!"