“The top.”
“Me too.”
But a woman reached the elevator before it moved off. The other man became frantic. When the woman left the elevator at the second floor, he regained his composure. This was the chance. Though the probabilities were many, the consequences did not worry him at all. With extreme care he grasped the knife that lay concealed in his pocket….
He went out of the elevator. He met no one. Better than he had foreseen, circumstances were working for him. He left the door of the elevator propped open, then hurried down the stairs. He made his way to the Ideal Bar, where he drank a lot and ate nothing but lettuce. He grew drowsy and dreamed a long dream in a very short space of time. Leaving the bar, he crossed in front of the building on the opposite pavement and saw the police and a great crowd of people. He continued walking to his hotel in al-Ataba. With a sigh of relief he entered his room, having totally forgotten his dream. He locked the door and put on the light.
Turning around, he saw the man sitting in the armchair, regarding him with a calmness that was as heavy as death. A deep groan escaped from him, and he retreated till his back was touching the wall. He sought desperately to flee but could not move. Nailed to where he stood, he urinated over himself. It was he for sure whom he saw, the man himself, in one hand the paper cone, in the other the bag: death staring out from a living picture, regarding him with motionless eyes that knew everything. He had a feeling of nausea, of dread, and told himself that he was either drunk or mad. Without uttering a word, the man ordered him to surrender; he was addressing him in a language that was new and clear, incisive yet inaudible. How and when had the man arrived with such speed? And what was the meaning of the police and the people gathered in front of the entrance to the building? How many years had gone by since he had committed his crime? How many years had he spent in the bar? With the passing of time, he became more sure about the man’s presence, his weight and unbounded authority. Something prompted him to slip his hand into his pocket, and he came across the knife he had left thrust into the man’s heart. It was then he realized that the world is subject to many laws, not just one.
Midnight struck. One o’clock. Receiving secret orders, he meekly made ready to carry them out, scrupulously and with blind obedience. The man rose slowly to his feet and strode toward the door. He opened it, and the other man walked out in front of him, silent and obedient. He wanted to shriek, but the sound came to nothing in his throat. He went down the stairs, the man following him. On the way he met a houseboy, the hotel manager, the reception clerk, but no one heeded him. The miracle attracted no one’s attention, caused no astonishment or interest.
In front of the hotel stood a carriage without a horse. The man moved toward the seat and quietly sat down. As for the other man, he took the place of the horse, putting the shafts under his arms. None of the passersby looked at what was happening. No crowd gathered. Every individual was occupied with something tangible or with something unseen. In fact one of the passersby even broke into song. “Those in love, O night.”
At the crack of the whip, he began pulling the carriage. He went off gracefully, gently, submissively. He saw both sides of the road but not what stretched out ahead of him. Thus it was into the unknown that he plunged.
Moving forward in a straight line or making a turn, his instructions come to him through tugs on the reins. To where is the man driving him? What does he have in mind for him? He does not know and does not care. He goes on without stopping. He urinates and defecates without stopping. Sometimes he neighs and raises his head, touching the bit with his dry tongue, while the sound of his hoofs on the asphalt echoes rhythmically. A monotonous rhythm that gives warning of a journey without end.
The Wasteland
Let the battle be fierce and savage and let it satisfy the thirst for revenge that had burned through twenty years of patient waiting and watching. The man’s face was aflame as his followers thronged behind him, some grasping their gnarled sticks, whose every knot gave warning of the breaking of bones, some carrying baskets filled with stones. The men proceeded along the desolate mountain path, vigorously resolved to fight.
You’re in for a tough time, Shardaha!
From time to time a street sweeper or garbage collector would gaze at the strange procession, concentrating with a curious, probing disbelief on the man who occupied the central position. They asked each other about this tough whom no one had ever seen.
You will know him and remember him well, you scum.
The inclining sun cast scorching rays on the embroidered scarves, and a khamsin wind blew like a thing possessed, burning the men’s faces and stirring up a loathsome gloom in the air. One of the followers leaned forward to the man’s ear and asked, “Master Sharshara, does Shardaha lie on the mountain road?”
“No, we have to cross through the Gawwala quarter.”
“News will spread quickly, and your enemy will make himself ready.”
A frown came to Sharshara’s face as he said, “What has to be done is not easy. A surprise attack will win the day, but it will not satisfy my thirst for revenge.”
A thirst of twenty years’ exile far from ever-wakeful Cairo, an exile spent in the darknesses of the port at Alexandria, with no hope in life but revenge. Food, drink, money, women, sky, earth, all were absorbed into heavy clouds; all sensation was confined to the aching state of being ever ready; the only thought to enter his mind was that of vengeance. No love, no stability, no leaving one’s wealth untouched, for everything disappeared in preparing for the dread day. And so the bloom of life melted away in the furnace of rancor and painful hatred. You had no delight in your slow but sure ascendancy among the port laborers. You reaped no real benefit from your victory over the Gaafaris in the battles of Kom al-Dikka. Nothing was easier for you than to live as a revered and respected gang leader and to adopt Alexandria as your home and hear the name Sharshara ring out under its skies. Yet your bloodshot eyes saw nothing of the world but Shardaha, with its narrow road, its steep, rambling quarters, and its odious tyrant, Lahlouba. Curse him!
The desolate mountain track ended at the gateway. The procession of men passed through it into the teeming quarter of al-Gawwala. In a sharp, commanding voice, like the fall of an axe on stone, Sharshara called out, “Not a word to anyone.”
The passersby made way for the procession; heads craned out of shops and windows and gazed at the unmistakable leader. Then fear and unrest spread.
“They’ll think we’ve come to harm them,” said Sharshara’s companion, in warning.
Sharshara eyed the pale faces and said loudly, “Men, I give you safety.”
Features relaxed and voices rose in greeting. Then, giving his companion a meaningful glance, he addressed the people, “We are on our way to Shardaha!”
He brandished his fearsome stick as he moved forward.
They are still looking at you in wonder. It is as though you had not been born in this quarter, in the very heart of Shardaha. But only murderers and criminals are remembered.
As a young man in his twenties, he had worked at the vegetable-oil press, his hobby playing marbles under the mulberry tree. He was an orphan who had no place to sleep except at the press, an act of charity on the part of Uncle Zahra, the owner. The first time he carried linseed oil to Lahlouba’s house, he had been given a slap on the back of the neck — that was the way Lahlouba had greeted him.
And Zeinab, how beautiful she had been! Had it not been for Shardaha’s tyrant, she would have been your wife these last twenty years. He could easily have asked for her hand before you did, but it seems she only became attractive to him the very night of your wedding. The hurricane lamps were broken, the singer fled, and the musical instruments were smashed. You were grabbed like some receptacle or piece of furniture. You were neither weak nor a coward, but to resist was beyond you. He threw you down under his feet, with dozens of other feet around you. He gave a hateful laugh and said scornfully, “Welcome, the linseed-oil bridegroom!” Your new galabeya was torn to shreds, your scarf lost, and what remained of your life’s savings stolen. You said, “I’m from Shardaha, master. We’re all your men and we rely on your protection.”