The Cheapest Nights Page 17

  This had been the custom for centuries until at last it was abolished, but only in recent times. The reason was a young girl from the village of Kafr Azab who was betrothed to a man from another town. On the day of the wedding the whole town went out as usual to see her to her new dwelling. On the way they were stopped by a huge black giant who stood in the middle of the road barring their way. No sooner had the people laid eyes on him than they were seized by panic since they were not particularly noted for their courage. Originally, Kafr Azab had consisted of a number of big families who had gradually disintegrated because of poverty and the scarcity of land. Eventually it deteriorated into a hamlet inhabited by thousands of belligerent individuals callously bent on destroying one another. They were all petty landowners, who owned at most only a fraction of a feddan and whose greatest ambition was to bring that fraction up to a whole. Their merchants—if they could be called that—were mere hawkers who carried their wares in bundles which they hauled on their shoulders on market-days. There were at least fifty grocery shops in the village, none of whose capital exceeded fifty pounds. There were hundreds whose only profession was to make tea and coffee and whose only capital was the tea kettle and the tumbledown shack where they lodged. There were men of religion and Koran chanters and ta‘amiyeh1 vendors who stood selling, after prayers, at the door of the mosque. There were basket-weavers and storytellers and petty thieves and brigands in abundance. If there was a vacancy for a watchman’s job there would be a hundred applicants, all falling over one another to get it. A man who managed to find employment superintending cotton-worm pickers during the picking season considered himself born under a lucky star.

  Yet in spite of their dire poverty, or perhaps because of it, they never ceased from lodging complaints against one another. Reports from Kafr Azab of attempted murder, armed robbery or rape never stopped pouring into the police station. The smart ones were those who filled their pockets without worrying how. A man who skimped and pinched to save one millieme was a man with talent. A land superintendent who set a price on his signature was considered smart. But the cleverest of all was the Omdah who reached his post by trading in cotton, nominally from the second crop, but actually stolen from the fields. So it was not surprising for anyone from Kafr Azab, when such things as honor and courage were spoken of, to turn down his lip and ask with contempt, “How much is that worth on the market?”

  That day they dutifully set out behind the bride to see her to her new home. Their real motive was the sumptuous wedding dinner they were hoping to get on the way. Potatoes and heaps of meat covered with hot, freshly baked bread, not to mention the sweet courses and the free entertainment, perhaps even a cigarette to crown the day.

  It is not hard to imagine their apprehension then, on seeing that black giant rising against the skyline to bar their way. Panic-stricken, their ranks broke up and they whispered among themselves and craned their necks to see what was up. They had no one they could delegate to negotiate with the giant as they had no leader. As a matter of fact the people of Kafr Azab had never been too keen on appointing a leader as each one of them wanted that role for himself. But in this instance leadership was fraught with danger and it took them a long time to find someone willing to speak on their behalf.

  Some suggested Sheikh Ragab Abou Shama‘a. Not because he was the owner of three whole feddans which he had bought inch by inch through depriving himself and his children of his own buffalo’s milk, but because he was the wisest and most moderate. In other words the most timorous. It was wise to have such a man for a leader in a situation where daring could be foolish, perhaps even bordering on ill manners.

  Sheikh Ragab accepted with great reluctance and only after he had been begged several times. He shouted at the procession to be silent. Then he kicked his stumpy little donkey and trotted up to the giant, dismounting respectfully within a little distance.

  “Good day to you,” he said in the fawning tone which distinguished the inhabitants of Kafr Azab.

  “Good day nothing,” returned the giant peremptorily, his eyes letting off sparks, “you turn right this way.”

  “Where to, if you please?” asked Sheikh Ragab even more unctuously, feigning total innocence.

  “You’re our guests for the night.”

  “Whose guests, pray?”

  “You’re the guests of El Sandik Bey. We’re his men, and I’m Ambar, his servant.”

  Sheikh Ragab tried every means by which to extricate himself from the situation. He even inquired after the impaled head of the slaughtered animal, pleading that since it wasn’t there they had a right to decline the invitation. But he was told in a manner which couldn’t stand argument that the beast had actually been slaughtered and that they had no choice but to comply by good means or bad. A few of the younger men did not seem to appreciate Ambar’s peremptory attitude so they raised a protest of some sort, aiming at least to impress the womenfolk. They even raised their sticks in preparation for battle, but Sheikh Ragab waved a commanding hand and shouted at them to be silent. He was too well acquainted with their caliber. He also knew in advance the outcome of any fight in which they engaged. For no sooner would the fight have started than they would take to their heels, having dealt a perfunctory blow or two, just for the record.

  “Well, just what is it you want, friend?” asked Sheikh Ragab.

  “We want you to call on our farm without another word,” replied Ambar.

  “By all means,” said Sheikh Ragab, kicking his donkey again, “we shall be honored to be your guests, just don’t upset yourself. This way, boys!” he shouted at his company as he motioned for them to follow him.

  The enormous Ambar couldn’t help raising an eyebrow at this sudden and unexpected capitulation which robbed him of the fight he was looking forward to bragging about for days to come. He marveled at these people who laid no store by their pride. Nevertheless he took the camel by the bridle and led the way to the farm, followed by no less than five hundred of the inhabitants of Kafr Azab, some riding, some walking with their slippers tucked under their arms and the hems of their gallabiehs caught between their teeth. Some were walking behind their mounts, following their well-known maxim: Better to degrade yourself than your mount.

  Shortly they came within sight of the El Sandik farm. Attracted by the noise, the Bey came out to watch what he thought was a fellahin wedding procession, but he was astounded to see the crowd stop at his gate, led by no less than Ambar, his servant.

  “Wait here and don’t move,” said Ambar to Sheikh Ragab.

  He left them there and turned toward his master with much the same demeanor as Tarek Ibn Ziad after he had conquered Spain.

  “My Bey, we’ve brought in the bride,” he announced in the tone of a victorious hero.

  The Bey only stared at him, unable to understand. Suddenly he seemed to remember having heard of some such custom. His father had told him. But then that was a long time ago when he was only a boy, in his father’s day and his grandfather’s before him. Those were the days of plenty when he heard it said they had owned one thousand five hundred feddans and four thousand head of sheep. But where was all this now? The land was gone and so were the days of plenty. The guesthouse was torn down, and the crop was mortgaged to several banks even before it was harvested. Only Ambar remained from those better days. The last of the family slaves from the days when they used to own them by the score. And now the fool goes and asks in those cohorts from Kafr Azab. A famished, worn-out battalion who must have starved themselves for days in preparation for the wedding feast.

  Blows and torrents of abuse fell on the miserable and uncomprehending Ambar. What had he done wrong? How many times in the past, in the days of the Bey’s father, had he brought in brides to call at their farm only to be commended and praised, and generously rewarded? And now he gets beaten for his good work. Surely, it seems, masters too have gone bad like the times. Gone are the days of lordly
hospitality when the Bey would have taken pride in the bride’s acceptance of his invitation instead of flying into such a rage.

  The Bey gave his servant one of two choices: either he get rid of that crowd or he would shoot him dead. Ambar understandably opted for the first and he was back like a shot to negotiate with Sheikh Ragab. The fiery sparks were gone from his eyes, his features drooped sadly. It was his turn now to speak unctuously, apologizing profusely, explaining it was all a misunderstanding, that the Bey knew nothing of all this, taking all the blame on himself.

  But there was nothing doing with Sheikh Ragab, who sat up in the saddle and declared to Ambar, backed by all five hundred of the inhabitants of Kafr Azab, that they were there to stay. Their dignity would not let them turn back, having come this far on the persistent invitation of El Sandik Bey who was bound to honor his word. This was perhaps the first time in their history that the people of Kafr Azab had ever stuck together.

  The footsore Ambar kept shuttling backward and forward from the Bey to Sheikh Ragab, conveying messages, taking care to conceal what the one said of the other and hoping all the time that his efforts would succeed. All in vain.

  When it became clear to the Bey that if he persisted in withdrawing his invitation he was going to be exposed to all and sundry as a miserable miser and made the laughingstock of the area for miles around there was nothing for him but to take them in. All night he was on his feet arranging for covers and plates and food to fill up those hundreds of hungry stomachs. But the first thing he did in the morning was to sack Ambar, preferring to part with that last vestige of grandeur rather than suffer any future disasters the latter might bring on him.

  As for the bride’s company, having contentedly sipped their morning coffee, and drawn on their first cigarettes, they started on the remainder of their journey with no end of praise for Sheikh Ragab and his wisdom. Any doubts as to Sheikh Ragab’s ability as a leader were completely dispelled and from now on they all became his staunch followers. They even went so far as to hold the bride’s camel back, making way for Sheikh Ragab to ride at the head of their procession.

  No sooner had they left the El Sandik farm behind, their hearty laughter rising from their satiated bellies, than they were stopped by a crowd representing the people of El Roda who had been waiting for them by the bridge. They went through the same motions, Sheikh Ragab affecting the same innocence. Hardly had the word “invitation” slipped from their leader than Sheikh Ragab was already heading for their village, waving for the rest to follow.

  Thus the village of El Roda found itself in a predicament, for how could they accommodate five hundred people when its own population did not exceed two hundred? In vain they struggled to extricate themselves, arguing that they were not adequately prepared. But Sheikh Ragab made further argument impossible by declaring blandly that “anything will do.”

  * * *

  —

  And so they progressed from town to town, and from village to village, even if they were stopped by only one man, and no matter how obviously perfunctory the invitation appeared. They reached their destination after seven days, eating, drinking and smoking, free. Even their mounts had fed lavishly on barley and clover and beans.

  After this, the people of El Sharkieh province decided it would be wiser after all to curb their generosity, and eventually they renounced the custom of bringing in brides.

  THE SHAME

  I believe they still refer to love as the Shame over there. They probably still hesitate to talk about it openly, making only covert allusions, even though you can see it in the hazy look in their eyes, and when the girls blush and shyly look down.

  Like any other, the farm was not a big one. The few houses were built with their backs to the outside, the doors opening onto an inner courtyard where they celebrated their weddings and hung their calves when a sick one was slaughtered to be sold by the oke1 or in lots. Events were few and could be foretold in advance. Day began before sunrise and ended after sunset. The favorite place was in the doorway where a north breeze blew and where it was pleasant to doze at noon and play a game of siga.2

  Nothing much happened, and whatever did happen was predictable. You could be sure for instance that the scrawny little girl playing hopscotch would marry in a few years. Her complexion would clear and her angular body would take on softer curves, and she’d end up with one of those boys in tattered gallabiehs next to their skin, diving off the bridge like chained monkeys to swim in the canal.

  Sometimes things did happen that were neither expected nor predictable. Like the day screams were heard coming from the field. They ripped the vast emptiness of the countryside, warning of some fearsome event. And although at first the people did not know where the sound was coming from they found themselves running to help, or at least to find out what had happened. But that day there was no need for help. The men returning to the farm tried to avoid answering when the women asked what had happened. For they could not bring themselves to say that Fatma had been caught in the maize field with Gharib. For both were no strangers to the farm. Fatma was Farag’s sister, and Gharib was Abdoun’s son and the matter had been plain to all.

  It was a small farm where everybody knew everybody else, and private affairs did not remain private. People even knew when someone had money hoarded away, exactly how much, where it was kept, and how it could be stolen if one had a mind to. Except that no one ever stole from another. If at all, they stole from the farm crops; petty thefts like a lapful of cotton or some corncobs. Or sometimes they would dip into the drainage canal of a rice field when the watchman wasn’t looking, and take all the fish without sharing it with the bailiff as the understanding went.

  Everyone knew Fatma and all there was to know about her. Not that she had a reputation or anything like that. It was just that she was pretty; or to be more accurate the prettiest girl on the farm. But that was not the point, for if a fair skin was the yardstick by which beauty is measured in the countryside, Fatma was dark. The point was that no one could explain what it was about that girl that made her so different from the others. Her cheeks were hale and ruddy giving the impression that she had honey for breakfast and chicken and pigeon for lunch, when her daily fare was plain curd cheese and pickled peppers, onions and scorched fry. Her eyes were black and beady and incessantly alive with a piercing look which made it hard to hold them for long. To say that her hair was soft and black, and that her floating black gown did not conceal her provoking curves would not do her justice. It was not her looks that made her what she was, but her intense femininity. A gushing, throbbing, devastating force which it was hard to trace to any definite source. The way she smiled, the way she turned her head to look behind her, the way she asked someone to help her with her water jar; her every movement was a provocation. There was witchery in the way she tied her only cabbage-green headcloth at a slant to reveal her smooth black hair. There was witchery in the dimples in her cheeks when she smiled, and in the trail of her rippling laughter; in the very sound of her languid, fluid voice which she knew how to modulate and distill into drops of the purest female seduction, every single drop of which could quench the lust of a dozen males.

  Fatma aroused men, almost as if she was made for that. She even aroused the dormant virility in little boys. When they saw her coming, they felt a sudden urge to uncover themselves. And they often did, raising their gallabiehs well up above their knees, and no amount of shouting or scolding would make them let up, for they themselves could not explain this urge to expose themselves in her presence.

  That’s why she was a worry to Farag, her brother, who was a poor lonesome fellah who owned nothing but his cow. The bailiff would not let him have more than three feddans to cultivate. His attempts every year to increase his share by half a feddan invariably ended in failure. Nevertheless he was a strapping hulk of a man. In one meal he could devour three whole loaves of bread, if he had them, and down the entire contents of th
e watercooler in one gulp. The calf of his leg had the proportions of a thigh. But his life was a torment on account of his sister. She lived with him and his wife who had a flat nose and a pale face and was a good sort on the whole, except when she drew Farag’s attention to his sister’s breasts, insisting that Fatma wobbled them on purpose when she walked. Also to the kohl with which she lavishly bespattered her eyes, and the chewing gum she was always asking people going to market to bring her. Farag had no need to be reminded of all this. He could see for himself, and it made his blood boil. Yet he had no real reason to reprove Fatma. She was no different from the other girls. They all dressed alike, they all smeared their eyes with kohl, and they all chewed gum. She was never caught in dubious situations, and her conduct was above reproach. Even when his wife accused her of coloring her cheeks with the wrapping paper of tobacco cartons, he had unwound his turban and wetted one corner with his spittle and rubbed her cheeks with it until he nearly drew blood, but nothing had come out. All he could do that day was glower at her, contenting himself with giving her a sharp scolding, while Fatma could think of no reason why she deserved to be treated that way. Warned and threatened by Farag, she well understood the meaning of the Shame. She was not guilty of it, nor did it even cross her mind to contemplate it. Indeed she would rather have died.

  Because she knew that people loved and spoiled her, she behaved like anyone used to receiving affection. She was natural, and her reactions came from her heart. She knew her looks were what attracted people to her so she took care of them, never appearing unwashed or uncombed. When she worked on the fields she protected her hands from getting scratched by slipping on the socks she borrowed from Om3 George. She was even careful not to offend when she spoke by using bad language or coarse expressions. Everyone loved her; everyone was her friend, and she loved them all in return. That was why she could not understand why her brother was so harsh with her, or the reason for the poisonous looks he kept darting at her.