“There is no doubt,” he said, “that you will one day occupy the place you deserve. Your voice is superior to that of Abdul Wahab himself.”
Ali Sabri grinned. “Which of the instruments of the band do you want to play?” he asked. “You told me that your late father was an excellent lute player.”
“I haven’t learned to play any instrument at all.”
“Not even the tambourine?”
“You tried me out as a Sannid, chanting refrains for you, and I think I’m the right man for the job.”
The master shook his head as he said, “As you like. Do you know many songs?”
“Yes. Mawawil, songs, and takatiqs.”
“How about a solo right now?”
At bottom, Hassan felt disdain for the pomposity of his companion, but he was determined to go along with him to the end. He was dreaming of one day becoming an independent singer, even in low popular coffeehouses. He waited until the waiter came back with the nargileh and the master enjoyed his first puffs.
“What would you say to my singing the Mawal ‘My Eyes, Why Are You Weeping?’ for you?” Hassan asked with a cough.
“Excellent.”
As best as he could, Hassan began to chant the Mawal in a low voice, while the other man kept moving his head forward and backward, pretending to be absorbed in the song. When Hassan finished he said, “For a Sannid, that’s more than enough, but I should like to hear you singing Hank, too. Do you know the song ‘How I Waited When I Lost Your Love’?”
Hassan coughed again, clearing his throat, his enthusiasm grew, and he began to sing with more zest. He sang without a pause to the end.
“Excellent. Excellent. Do you know the basic tunes, Sica, Biati, Hijaz, and so on?” the master asked.
Sure of the master’s ignorance of those tunes, Hassan answered, with extraordinary daring that others rarely exhibited. “Of course.”
“Chant the Laiali ‘Rast’ for me.”
He chanted the first Laiali that came to his mind.
“Bravo. Chant another — a Nahawound,” Ali Sabri said, shaking his head.
Hassan continued to sing, suppressing a feeling of inward sarcasm. The other man was following him, feigning attention. Suddenly, he looked meditative and seemed to have something important to say. Instinctively, Hassan was waiting for this moment. Perplexed, he wondered whether Ali Sabri wanted to appoint him to lead a fight. What did he want precisely?
“Your voice is good enough. But working for the band requires other talents and skills. Here we must be in complete agreement. For instance, you should know all about propaganda methods, too,” the master said.
“Propaganda!”
“Yes. You should, for example, speak highly of my art whenever an occasion arises. You should also persuade people to ask me to sing at their marriage ceremonies. You will get your reward, of course. When you are at a songfest held by another singer, you should criticize his voice and tell everyone around you how wonderful Ali Sabri would have been if he had been singing instead, and so on.”
“That’s easy. You can expect even more,” Hassan said with a smile on his face.
Ali Sabri paused for a moment, and then said, “You are a strong and daring young man, and you should exploit your talents to the utmost. But let me ask you one more question. Which narcotic most appeals to you?”
Hassan wondered what made him ask such a question. Did he want to offer him a present? Impossible. He was always ready to accept presents, and generosity was certainly not part of his personality. Or was he seeking his collaboration on an important task? His heart fluttered at such a thought. He had long dreamt of trafficking in narcotics. Yet, he decided to be wary and on his guard.
“I think narcotics harm the throat,” he said slyly.
Ali Sabri laughed. With a thunderous and powerful voice, he started to sing a Laiali.
“What do you think of that singing?” he asked when he finished.
“Peerless.”
Ali Sabri went on to say, “This is what comes of fifteen years of addiction to hashish, opium, and manzoul,* and five years of taking cocaine as well.”
“You don’t say!”
“Narcotics are the very lifeblood of vocalizing. Any singer worthy of the name is as much addicted to drugs as he is to such basic foods as molokhiva and fool mudammis.”
Hassan laughed. “Only if those drugs are available,” he said, surrendering.
“You are right. And it is as I thought. You don’t hate narcotics, but you have no access to them. Let me tell you, it is easy to turn rivers of water into rivers of wine, and mountains into mountains of hashish. You are both daring and strong. But I will be frank with you; I was very much afraid!”
“Of what?”
Ali Sabri gave a short laugh that revealed his yellow teeth. “Of all people,” he said, “I hate most those who say, ‘My morals won’t allow me to do this’ or ‘I have fear of God’ or those who fearfully ask, ‘What about the police?’ Now, are you one of them?”
Hassan smiled, feeling that he would be well rewarded for his long patience.
“I live in this world, assuming that there is no morality, God, or police,” he said.
Ali Sabri erupted in a powerful laugh that shook the café as much as his singing, and said, “Let’s spend the rest of the night at my place and continue our talk.”
Hassan agreed, hoping some profitable scheme would come of all this. His confidence never failed him for a single moment, but he had little faith in his interlocutor. However, he had not quite given up hope in him. Deep down, he felt that he would have to wait a long time before the earth, shaking underneath his feet, became stable once more.
*A cheap mixed drug.
THIRTY-TWO
Content with the light that shone from Hussein and Hassanein’s room, Nefisa and her mother were sitting in the hall when their friend and landlady paid them a visit. As befitted someone who had done such important services for Nefisa, they welcomed her warmly. She installed herself on the sofa between the two women and insisted that they need not turn on the hall light. She and Samira entertained themselves with conversation while Nefisa went to the kitchen to make some coffee for their guest.
Always expecting profitable work for Nefisa from Mrs. Zeinab’s visits, Samira was seldom disappointed. Her mind was never free from the worries of life, even after the passage of almost a year. She was particularly worried now about the approaching summer holidays, when she could expect to shoulder the additional task of providing her two younger sons with food at home in place of the meals they took at school. And so she was complaining to Mrs. Zeinab of her troubles during the last months, and the landlady was consoling and encouraging her, when Nefisa came back with the coffee. Wanting to explain her reasons for paying this visit, Mrs. Zeinab smiled sweetly and good-naturedly and said, “I’ve brought you a new bride.”
“Then I’m entitled to call myself the bride’s dressmaker,” Nefisa replied, laughing with pleasure.
“I pray to God that you will soon be making your own wedding dress.”
“Amen,” Samira murmured.
Nefisa’s gloomy memories were stirred by her mother’s invocation, and she said “Amen” to it in her innermost heart. When shall I become a bride? she wondered. Not before Amm Gaber Soliman dies. How ironical! To cherish such a hope has cost me both body and soul. It is possible for Mother to conceive of what has happened? She thinks of the worries of everyday life as the greatest calamity. But how ignorant and miserable of her to think so!