Free The Harafish by Naguib Mahfouz Page B

never stand still.
    11 .
    A new chief had to be chosen before the regime crumbled completely or ambitious gangs from other alleys moved in. The choice was narrowed down to Ghassan and Dahshan as the strongest candidates and the closest to al-Nagi. Shams al-Din was not even considered: he was too young and delicate-looking. Each man backed his favorite, and they decided to follow the procedure normally adopted in such cases: the rival candidates were to fight it out in the Mameluke Desert and the winner would be made chief.
    News of these developments reached Fulla and when she saw Shams al-Din dressing to go and watch the fight with the other gang members tears of self-pity sprang to her eyes. Irritated by his mother’s reaction, he said, “The alley can’t survive without a chief.”
    “Who can follow him?” she asked fiercely.
    “There’s nothing we can do.”
    “The place’ll be run by thugs and tyrants like it was before.”
    “It won’t be that easy for them to turn their backs on al-Nagi’s legacy,” said the boy with passion.
    She sighed and seemed to be addressing herself: “Before, even though I was poor, I was a lady. Now I’m going to be just a sadwidow, abandoned by everybody, praying without hope, dreaming of my lost paradise, hiding away at weddings, afraid of the dark, wary of men, avoiding other women, bored and forgotten.”
    “I’m not dead yet!” he said reproachfully.
    “God give you a long life. But your father’s left you while you’re still a boy. A carter without money or status, or his giant size which would have guaranteed you the leadership…”
    “I have to go now,” he muttered dispiritedly. He said goodbye, tucked his father’s rough stick under his arm, and left.
    12 .
    Shams al-Din had grown up in a Spartan household and knew only hard work and a simple way of life. He remembered nothing of the opulence of the Bannan house. His father used to take delight in his handsome face, almost a copy of his mother’s, and say, smiling, “This boy’s not cut out to be a chief.”
    He sent him to Quran school, poured life’s sweetest melodies into his heart, and did not neglect the physical side of his education: he taught him horse riding, single-stick fencing, boxing, and wrestling, although he had no thoughts of preparing him to be chief. As Shams al-Din became more aware of his surroundings, he realized the extent of his father’s power and influence and was brought abruptly face-to-face with the sharp contrast between his greatness and the miserable life he led. One year as a feast day approached he declared boldly, “Father, I want to wear a cloak and headcloth in the parade.”
    “Have you ever seen me in anything but a plain gallabiyya?” asked his father sternly.
    Like her son, Fulla was annoyed with the way they lived and said to Ashur in his hearing, “Nobody would blame you if you took enough from the taxes to ensure yourself a decent living.”
    “No,” replied Ashur. “You should raise chickens if you want to make us a bit more comfortable.” Then, turning to Shams al-Din, he added, “Surface gloss has no value in this life compared to a clear conscience, the love of your fellow man, and the pleasure of listening to the anthems!”
    He trained him to be a carter and they shared the work until Ashur was approaching his sixties, when he handed most of it over to Shams al-Din. Shams al-Din admired and respected his father but at the same time longed for a life of ease; sometimes he supported his beautiful mother in her aspirations. Spurred on by these suppressed desires, he innocently accepted a feast-day bonus offered to him by the owner of the caravanserai and rushed out to buy a cloak, headcloth, and leather shoes with turned-up toes. On the morning of the feast he sauntered proudly through the alley in his new attire. When Ashur saw him, he grabbed him by his collar and marched him into the basement, then struck him so hard that his head