Naguib Mahfouz: The Time and the Place: And Other Stories

“May we all be preserved!”

“He said, ‘You blind old driveler, I say Gu’ran and you tell me el-A’war?’ The truth is that I panicked. Not knowing what I was doing, I held out my hand and recited the Fatiha!”

“And what about el-A’war’s Fatiha?”

The old man, in a state of complete collapse, said, “That’s just the trouble — so come to my rescue!”

They at once perceived that the trouble had a direct bearing on Farghana itself, and that once again their alley was threatened with destruction. They all cast about for some solution, until a blind Koran reciter spoke. “She can’t marry the two of them, that’s out of the question. And she can’t marry one rather than the other, because that spells death.” Then he removed his turban and scratched his head for a long time without coming up with any answers.

The lupine-seed seller had a suggestion. “Let her marry Hamli in secret.”

Many answered him in a single voice. “Not Abu Zeid al-Hilali* himself could marry her now.”

When too much thinking had wearied their heads in vain, the Koran reciter said, “Say a prayer with me: ‘O Munificent Possessor of Mercies, save us from what we fear!’ ”

In the morning people found a strange commotion going on in an abandoned warehouse in the alley. There was a group of builders, carpenters, and laborers working with great determination in the warehouse, getting it ready for a new life. Over the entrance had been fixed a large notice reading FARGHANA POLICE STATION. Then along came some policemen with an officer, who took over the new place. People gathered in front of the police station, and an old policeman told them, “The Commandant is angry — the violence must cease.”

Some said that God had answered their prayers, but their hearts were not put at rest. Everything around them convinced them that violence was stronger than the government. During their whole lives they had not seen a single policeman challenging one of the big bosses, whereas the bosses challenged the law every moment of the day and night. No one had forgotten how the superintendent of the Daher police station had one day sought the help of Halwagi’s big boss, Gu’ran, against a Greek drug dealer who enjoyed the protection of the French government and was threatening to kill him. How then could this small police station, these few men, possibly put an end to violence?

The young officer with the two gold stars and the red braid came out and seated himself in a cane chair by the entrance to the police station, then sent a policeman to the Mulberry Café to bring him a narghile — a water pipe. He was around twenty-five years of age, slenderly built, and with coarse features; there was nothing remarkable about him apart from a large head with crinkly hair. He looked at the assembled crowd and said with a strange simplicity, “Othman al-Galali, your obedient servant. Don’t be afraid, the government is with you.”

The people ingratiated themselves with him by smiling doltishly, and nobody said a word. Taking up the flexible tube of the narghile, he continued. “It’s a disgrace for men to live like women. Don’t let anyone get the upper hand of you.”

When he did not find a single indication of encouragement, he said with a certain sharpness that signaled his impatience, “And whoever shields a criminal I shall treat as a criminal.”

Their eyes blinking in confusion, the people then dispersed one by one, all safely getting out of the way. The officer explored the quarter with some of his men. He made the rounds of Da’bas and Halwagi, and wherever he went he was followed by looks. From windows and cafés and nooks and crannies, he was the target for stares of timidity, derision, or resentment. He passed by el-A’war, who ignored him, and he passed by Gu’ran, who ignored him and then gave out a resounding laugh, and all the while Othman remained calm.

Everyone realized that he was parading the prestige of the government, and Gu’ran resolved to take him unawares with a decisive response. In the late afternoon of the same day, a bloody battle broke out between Halwagi and Da’bas on the open ground of the threshing floor, and the news of it spread like fire in the wood store. Laithi’s weak heart trembled, and Farghana’s joints turned to water. Many people advised the father to marry his daughter to Gu’ran, for he was after all the stronger of the two. It would be the lesser of two evils.

The following morning Othman made his appearance wearing a galabeya just like all the other inhabitants of the quarter. At first the people could not believe their eyes, but his identity was confirmed by his well-known voice. “For the benefit of those who were frightened by the uniform, I have taken it off. So now let the tough guys come to me if they are truly men.”

He moved off from the police station alone, without allowing a single policeman to follow him. Instead he was followed by stupefied men, women, and young boys. He made his way to Halwagi with a resolution not seen in anyone before him, until he was standing in front of the Hazel Café, where Gu’ran was to be found among his companions and followers. Othman said quietly, yet with a frowning face that clearly threatened, “Yesterday you challenged the government. Now here I am, alone amid you, demanding my share of being challenged, so let any real man among you step forward.”

A young man named Inaba insolently wiggled his belly a few feet away from the officer, who turned suddenly and gave him a violent blow in the stomach, at which the man fell motionless to the ground. Everyone was stupefied at this unexpected show of courage, while the onlookers backed away. All eyes were fixed on Gu’ran, sitting squat-legged on a couch, enveloped in his cloak. For the first time Gu’ran looked into the face of the officer. “Without reason you attacked a companion of mine.”

“He deserved to be taught some manners and I did so, and your turn will come right away,” shouted Othman.

“You’re young,” said Gu’ran, his face disfigured with scars, “so, for the sake of your family, take yourself off.”

“Get up if you’re a man, and step forward.”

Derisively Gu’ran made no movement. Othman took several steps toward him, and speedily Gu’ran’s bodyguards grouped themselves in front of their master.

“Do I see you hiding behind a wall of cowards?” said the officer scornfully.

“Stand aside,” Gu’ran called to his men.

They quickly dispersed, like pigeons after a shot has been fired. Gu’ran leaped up. He was of medium height, with a compact body and thick neck. “Where are your policemen?” he inquired.

To this the officer replied with fury. “I’ll beat you the way you beat others….” And with the suddenness of a thunderbolt he gave Gu’ran a humiliating slap. Gu’ran screamed out angrily and sprang at him, and the two became locked in mortal combat. This was an amazing moment, which to this day the quarter has not forgotten: it was like the storied battle between the elephant and the tiger. It was a battle decisive in the quarter’s history, and it changed its course forever. Every tough in Gu’ran’s bodyguard, and indeed among el-A’war’s men too, read his fate in it.

Gu’ran, with all the savagery in his blood, wanted to squeeze the life out of Othman between his iron arms, but the officer relied upon his agility and quick punches, an art wholly unknown to Gu’ran. The officer’s punches landed on his enemy’s jaws, chest, stomach, and crooked nose, and Gu’ran screamed with crazed anger. “I’ll be cursed if I don’t drink your blood!”

The men, prevented by their traditions from participating in the battle, shouted, “Death…death to him, Master!”

Screams, shouts, and general clamor rose up. The whole quarter was assembled under the vaulted tunnel that divided Halwagi from Farghana. Na’ima stood there trembling with excitement, nervously clutching at her father’s hand as she described to him what was happening, what his feeble eyes were unable to see for themselves.