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

Gu’ran’s head spun with the blows that rained down on him. His movements grew slower, his arms sagged, and his eyes stared out unseeingly. “The monster has fallen to his knees,” called out Na’ima joyfully.

He had indeed fallen. Bent double like a bear, with his head sunk into the dust, he then collapsed on his side. Dozens of cudgels were raised aloft, at which Othman, out of breath, called out, “You women!”

The men backed away in shame, while one of them shouted at him, “Soon they’ll be reciting the Fatiha over your dead body.”

Othman took to roaming the quarters in his ordinary galabeya and the strange legend that had grown around him saw to it that he was received with respect wherever he went. Whenever he came across a tough, big or small, he would block his way and demand that the man say, for everyone to hear, “I’m a woman.” If there was any hesitation, he would hurl himself at the tough and flatten him to the ground. Every day would bring battles that the officer would enter boldly and emerge from victorious. Only a few months were to pass before the toughs departed from Da’bas and Halwagi, and no one was left but old men, women, and children, or those who went about with lowered eyes and had washed their hands of violence. The weak felt as if they had been born anew, and they looked at the officer with affection and esteem in their eyes.

Uncle Laithi grew sick, lost his sight completely, and took to his bed, and Na’ima wandered around on her own with the handcart of liver. As the days passed she became increasingly beautiful, aided by the reputation she had gained from el-A’war and Gu’ran having recently competed for her. The alley expected from one moment to the next that she would be betrothed to some suitable bridegroom. Then, one night, Handas, the lad at the café, whispered to those gathered there for the evening, “Have you seen how the officer looks at Na’ima?” No one had noticed anything, so he went on. “He devours her with his eyes.”

Each one, from his own vantage point, proceeded to observe Na’ima. They perceived that she usually made her pitch with her handcart by the wall opposite the police station; that Othman would steal glances at her with noticeable interest, his eyes exploring the places of particular beauty in her face and body; and that when calling out her wares, the inflection of Na’ima’s voice would be tinged with coquetry. In her sidelong glances and in every movement in her dealings there were feminine nuances directed at a man deserving of attention. As one of the café habitués, on a subsequent evening, said, “He devours her and she likes being devoured.”

“And poor Uncle Laithi?” muttered the café owner.

“Who knows?” said the lupine-seed seller. “Perhaps the officer has asked the old man to be his father-in-law!”

“Nothing is too difficult for God,” said the blind Koran reciter.

The others’ eyes, though, bespoke the extent of their hopelessness. “He’s stronger than Gu’ran and el-A’war together,” said a young man, “and heaven help anyone who lets out so much as a squeak.”

And Na’ima stood in the moonlight, checking through the day’s takings and singing, “Before him I was a fool.” But, desiring peace, the young men steered clear of her, saying that no girl sang like that unless she was in love.

Not many nights were to pass before Handas returned with news. “Everything has come to light — I saw the two of them yesterday at the Shubra wasteland…”

“Have a fear of God!” warned the owner of the café.

“She was standing — God be praised — in front of the cart, and the officer was eating the liver like a wild animal.”

“It’s quite natural,” said the Koran reciter. “It happens to everyone.”

“But at the Shubra wasteland!” exclaimed Handas. “Didn’t you hear, sir? I called on God’s mercy for poor Uncle Laithi.”

Sadness penetrated to the depths of their hearts. Then the café owner said, “Her father’s decrepit, but it’s the honor of the whole quarter.”

“The quarter itself is too decrepit to defend her honor,” said the lupine-seed seller.

Shame turned their faces sullen, and they were astonished that this should come from the man who had bestowed peace upon them. The narghile and its tobacco had no taste for them. “And what’s to be done?” asked the young man.

“Just say ‘I’m a woman,’ ” said the blind Koran reciter.

Na’ima noticed the silence and contempt that enclosed her, and she began making up to this one and that, testing her doubts, but she encountered a wall of rancor. She was not afraid of being attacked, safe in the knowledge that the toughest of the toughs was to be found at his place outside the police station, but she suffered a lonely isolation. She kept her head raised proudly, yet the look in her honey-colored eyes was as a withered leaf, devoid of any spirit. At the slightest passing friction she would flare up in rage and be ready for a fight. She would curse and swear, and shout at her victim, “I’m more honorable than your mother.” And all the while the officer would be seated in the cane chair, smoking his narghile and stretching out his legs halfway across the alley. His body had filled out, his stomach was paunchy, and there was a lofty look in his eyes. His ardor, though, had subsided, and it seemed that Na’ima herself no longer aroused his feelings. Those who, despite everything, had not forgotten the benefits he had brought, sighed and said, “What will be will be.”

Na’ima now spent only the shortest time possible in the alley and would then wander far afield into different quarters and not return until night. Because she was always edgy and spoiling for a fight, her features had become stern and sullen, the look in her eyes frigid. She had become marked by a certain dullness which showed that old age was rushing toward her without mercy.

When that magic of hers that had turned the officer’s head had faded — or so it appeared to curious eyes — there were whispers in the corners of the Mulberry Café. In the moments of silence the gurgling of the water pipes could be heard in the dying light of the alley like a succession of mocking laughs.

*A folk hero.

The clouds gathered and grew denser like night descending, then the drizzle came down. The road was swept by a cold wind full of the aroma of humidity. The passersby quickened their pace, except for a group that had collected under the bus shelter. The ordinariness of the scene would almost have frozen it into inactivity, had it not been for a man who rushed headlong like a madman out of a side street and disappeared into another street opposite. Following on his heels was a group of men and youths who were shouting, “Thief…catch the thief!” The uproar gradually decreased then suddenly died out, with the drizzle continuing. The road emptied, or almost so; as for those gathered under the shelter, some were waiting for the bus while others had retreated there for fear of getting wet. The noise of the chase again revived, becoming louder as it grew closer. Then the pursuers came into view as the men laid hands on the thief, while around them the youths cheered with high-pitched voices. Halfway across the road, the thief tried to make his escape, so they took hold of him and fell upon him with slaps and kicks. Receiving such a violent beating, he resisted and struck out at random. The eyes of those standing under the shelter were firmly fixed on the battle.

“What a cruel beating they’re giving him!”

“There’ll be a crime worse than theft!”

“Look — there’s a policeman standing at the entrance to a building, watching!”

“But he’s turned his face away!”