Free Arabian Nights and Days by Naguib Mahfouz

to honor and humbles those He wishes to humble.”
    “Each in accordance with his zeal,” muttered Fadil Sanaan.
    The sentence hit him like the smell of pepper, and he wondered whether Fadil had learned the words from the same source. Preparing the way for a new direction in the conversation, he said, “And part of the perfection of zeal is caution.”
    Each of them turned about in his mind his own thoughts for a while, then Abdullah said, “We are on the point of becoming one family, and so I tell you that a porter enters houses that are open only to the elite.”
    Fadil guessed that his friend was about to deliver himself of a confidence. He gave him an inquiring look and Abdullah said, “In the houses of Yusuf al-Tahir the governor and Adnan Shouma the chief of police there are sometimes whisperings about the enemies of the state.”
    “It’s only to be expected,” said Fadil, feigning indifference.
    “No one imagines that I understand the meaning of what is going on or that I am paying any attention to it.”
    “You’re an unusual man, Uncle Abdullah, and you continue to astonish me.”
    “There is nothing astonishing about the astuteness of a man who has moved about in different places and circumstances.”
    “I’m truly happy to be with you,” said Fadil.
    Abdullah continued with what he had to say. “They are people obsessed with delusions. The more they go to excesses of criminality, the more they conjure up the specters of Shiites and Kharijites.”
    “I know that only too well.”
    “So it was that I said that part of the perfection of zeal is caution.”
    Fadil gave him a questioning look and asked, “What do you mean?”
    “You’re intelligent enough to know.”
    “You seem to be warning me.”
    “There’s no harm in that.”
    “I am nothing but a seller of sweets—is there anything about me to cause you disquiet?”
    He gave an enigmatic smile and said, “I like caution as much as I like the Shiites and Kharijites.”
    “To which group do you belong?” Fadil asked him eagerly.
    “Neither to these nor to those, but I am the enemy of evildoers.” Abdullah found himself before an open invitation, but, as a former policeman, he preferred to proceed in his own fashion.
IX
    Abdullah the porter darted out like an arrow into the sky of his perceived holy war. Calling upon his strength of former times, he subdued it on this occasion to his pure and firm will. Immediately, Buteisha Murgan, the private secretary, was felled, murdered. It happened as he was making his way among his guards from the house of government to his own house after midnight, when, from out of the darkness, an arrow struck him, lodging in his heart. He was sprawled across his mule among the lances and lanterns of his guards, who swooped down on the surrounding quarters, arresting every passerby they came across, the loafers and those sleeping about in corners. His house was consumed with grief and the house of government was rocked, with Yusuf al-Tahir going out like a madman at the head of his forces. The news reached the vizier Dandan, who was made sleepless with terror till morning. And with morning the news had spread through the quarter and the whole city.
    People were in a state of agitation and rumors were rife. It was a new link in the chain of the violent deaths of al-Salouli and al-Hamadhani, a new confirmation of the mysterious world of genies. Or was it the Shiites or the Kharijites? Or perhaps it was an isolated incident behind which lay concealed a woman’s jealousy or a man’s envy?
    The skies opened up with heavy rain, which continued for the whole day so that mud piled up and water covered with scum flowed in the alleys and lanes, spoiling the arrangements for Buteisha’s funeral and burial, and warning of a cruel winter. Abdullah the porter slipped in among the common folk at the Café of the Emirs, his senses alert with concealed attention. The murder became the subject of all conversation, views