The Cheapest Nights Read online

  One knew it was Saturday when the crowds were seen crawling down to the vacant lot from all directions. Hundreds of turbans and gallabiehs milled about, helter-skelter, jostling with cowherds, and people on donkeys, or with baskets on their heads, or simply loitering about.

  People from the villages to the west had only to cross the agricultural road and go through the gate to be inside the marketplace. But for those coming from the villages to the east it was more complicated. For the pathways sloping down from their villages all converged at the old water-wheel into a single path ending at a point in the east fence facing the gate in the west fence. To reach the door they had to go all the way around the fence, which they considered to be a needless complication. So a shortcut was improvised by simply knocking down one of the wooden boards of the fence; all they had to do to get inside was to slip through the gap. The narrow pathway was now the principal route to and from the marketplace, while the gap served as a main entrance.

  The owner of the land happened to possess a mansion overlooking the marketplace much adorned with mashrabiehs2 and verandas and reception rooms and things of that kind. It seems he was taking the air one day, on one of his verandas, when he was horrified to see an interminable queue of peasants pouring into the marketplace through the fence. He flew into a rage and ranted and raved and jumped on his horse and galloped down to see for himself how this came to happen. When he saw the gap he ranted and raved again and gave orders that the broken board be replaced at once.

  On the following market-day he stood on his veranda waiting to gloat over the queue as it broke up when it came to the blocked entrance. But his fury knew no bounds when he found them pouring in just the same. Again he dashed off to the scene and again he found the board had been removed. They say he had the carpenter who had done the repair flogged twice: once for having done it badly and once to make him do it again properly. Furthermore he stayed and supervised the job himself to see that it was done to his satisfaction. Only to be appalled the following week to find that again the board had been removed. He grew purple with rage and the blood nearly burst out of his head. This time he ordered two big acacia trees torn down and chopped up to block the gap.

  A week had scarcely gone by before the trees were flung aside and the queue was pouring in as usual. He would have burst a vein this time had he not applied a leech to suck off the blood from his cheeks. And when his bailiff advised him to spare himself toil and undue irritation by fixing a proper door to the aperture, he nearly tore him to pieces. It was no longer a matter of simply fixing a door but a contest of wills. He wasn’t going to be dictated to by a lot of barefooted vulgar peasants. If before he had acted on an angry impulse, now he was going to act according to reason and rational thinking. This took him all night. By morning he had hit on the idea of hiring a crew of men from Upper Egypt with their picks and axes, to dig a deep trench all around the marketplace and fill it with water. It was done within a week. Being certain, at last, that he had found the radical solution to his problem, the man did not bother to stand and watch the result that week, nor any of the subsequent weeks.

  Meanwhile, the chopped-up acacia trees had been hauled back, dumped into the trench, and brought level with the ground by heaping lumps of dried mud on top of them. The very mud that had been dug out in making the trench. Then part of the trench was filled in so that it formed a bridge between the pathway and the old entrance. The owner came upon this during one of his saunters on horseback one day. He could hardly control his rage as he could now see clearly that he was being defied openly by the worthless peasants. He called in three of the tallest and broadest of his guards and threatened to bring ruin upon their heads if it came to his knowledge that a single man had penetrated the fence.

  On market-day that week, for the first time the queue was forced to break up. A brawl had started at the entrance after which the broad and the tall were carried back, bleeding, to the mansion. By the end of the day the queue was on the march again down its regular route.

  When the guards recovered, they were sent back on duty at the fence. New brawls broke out though less violent than before. The queue slowed down on occasion but soon resumed their march as the guards looked the other way.

  One day the landowner came upon his men sitting in the shade of a sycamore tree while gifts came pouring into their laps. So they were sacked and some masons and a load of bricks were brought, and he ordered a wall to be built which would completely seal off the gap. He had hoped, at the same time, to have sealed off any gaps in himself which made him doubt of his success.

  One Saturday had barely gone by when the man, distraught with rage, discovered that one of the boards right next to the wall had been wrenched away and a new opening was gaping in its place.

  That day he vowed to sell the place. But he had no time to honor his vow, for the Markets Company requisitioned the site by virtue of a decree and long-term installments. Instead of the old wooden fence the company erected a new one made of iron spikes which were replaced whenever they showed signs of decay. Unlike the previous owner they did not resort to thugs or massive walls but acted in cooperation with the local authorities who appointed a detachment of the cavalry to patrol the grounds every Saturday.

  And yet, early on a Saturday morning you will still find the same interminable queue crawling down the pathway and pouring steadily through the fence into the marketplace.

  And so, everywhere, there will always be a broken spike.

  THE FUNERAL CEREMONY

  Abou’l Metwalli stood in the doorway of the mosque while the midday sun poured down on him, blistering his white face. It made his hair, snow-white like a rabbit’s, glow with the heat, and his bald eyelids, which he tightened against the sunlight, grow redder still. For a while he stood dodging the rays of the sun, unable to see inside except when he craned his neck to push his head into the shade within. He searched the mosque with his bleary eyes until he found the man he was looking for, sitting at the foot of a column fighting off sleep.

  “Sheikh Mohamed,” he called in his quiet nasal voice. But his voice was lost in the hum that rose from the prostrated worshippers, ringing in hollow echoes against the lofty walls of the mosque. He raised his voice and struggled to make himself heard, his face reddening with the effort until it was the color of a cock’s comb.

  Finally the man heard him and turned his head as if he was expecting to be called. His eyes darted to the door, then he picked himself up and shuffled across. Abou’l Metwalli was relieved as he could now rest his eyes from the strain of searching. He drew his eyelids tightly together again, leaving only a narrow slit from which to follow what was going on.

  “What took you so long, Mabrouk?” asked the Sheikh.

  Abou’l Metwalli had no time for civilities, he did not trouble to reply. Instead, he placed the bundle he was carrying on the bench that protruded in the doorway. It contained a dead infant wrapped in a faded blanket.

  “Read the prayers, Sheikh Mohamed,” he ordered.

  The Sheikh demurred. He craned his neck and looked to the left, then to the right. Then he smiled, an artless cunning smile, and was starting to say something when Abou’l Metwalli cut him short irritably.

  “Just read the prayers,” he insisted, screwing up his eyes more tightly, as if in defiance of both Sheikh Mohamed and the sun. He gave his gallabieh a hard smack to mark his discontent, and tugged at his turban with both hands to set it straight, perhaps for the hundredth time since the morning.

  He planted himself more firmly in his place until the Sheikh got started on his prayers. Then he let his attention drift to the petty brawls that were breaking out all the time between the countless hawkers and their customers standing all around the mosque. But the sun was in his eyes so he moved them to the shade where a zikhr was in full sway. The ring included a motley crowd of people led by a half-witted Sheikh, who wore a red sash and a leather pouch slung over his sho
ulder. Only God knew what was inside. He was leading the zikhr by hitting his beads on an iron tube he was holding, while he kept up a monotonous chant, his voice even more repulsive than his face.

  When the licorice-juice seller came around, and the clash of his cymbals rang in the air, Abou’l Metwalli suddenly became aware of his parched throat and he couldn’t resist the temptation of the cool beads that glistened on the glass container. So he held out half a piastre to the man, and with one breath blew off the foamy top from the glass he gave him and in the name of Allah gulped down the liquid. Feeling his soul revive he dug into his waist pocket again and came up with another half piastre which he chucked at the man. Once again his throat went into convulsions as he gulped down the second glass.

  It made him belch and his body became drenched in sweat. He stole a look at the sycamores a man was selling not far from him, but didn’t like the look of them so he came back to the door to find Sheikh Mohamed nearing the end of the prayers, having made two prostrations.

  “Peace and the mercy of God be with you,” he was saying in peroration as he stared toward the undertaker. His voice was loud and pointed, with a hint of reproof at Abou’l Metwalli. Then he dropped it to a whisper and went on to terminate the prayer. The undertaker eyed him with suspicion.

  “Sheikh, would you swear on your Muslim faith that the boy was properly turned toward the Kiblah?”1

  Sheikh Mohamed, ending his prayer, raised his voice. “God bless and save . . . ,” he went on, but the undertaker wouldn’t let him.

  “Can you say in good faith that your ablutions were correctly performed?”

  “. . . and save our lord Mohamed and his Family, and his Companions.” The prayer was ended. “What is the matter, brother, don’t you trust me?” asked the Sheikh. Abou’l Metwalli mumbled something that made no sense even to himself. He picked up the bundle.

  “How many does this one make?” the Sheikh was now asking, having wound up the prayer in a hurry.

  The undertaker paused, saying nothing for a while as his irritation returned, making his small load feel like a ton of bricks. He had done his best to avoid this issue but now it seemed inevitable.

  “This one makes seven, Sheikh Mohamed,” he said slowly.

  “What do you mean, seven? I swear by the lady Miska, and Om Hashem and all God’s saints, this one makes eight.”

  “Seven, I tell you Sheikh Mohamed, and I swear by almighty God.”

  “Look here, ’Am2 Metwalli, you’re a man with a family, you can’t afford to be dishonest. I swear, I tell you. All right, let’s count them from the beginning. There was that boy you brought from El Hanafi this morning. That makes one. Then there was that girl, your cousin . . .”

  “You look here, Sheikh Mohamed, I tell you it’s only seven, and if that’s not true I’ll repudiate my wife.”

  “I tell you, man . . .”

  “And I’m telling you, only seven, and if that’s not true I’ll repudiate my wife.”

  “Very well, we’ll leave it to your conscience. God is your witness.”

  “So how much have you had so far?”

  “One ten-piastre piece.”

  The undertaker paused to calculate.

  “So now for all seven I still owe you four piastres.”

  “But . . . I mean, look . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I mean. . . . Look, do I need to tell you? How much is a pound of tomatoes these days, hey? And okra beans, do you know how much they are? And business so slack. No proper celebrations, no funeral ceremonies, nothing coming in. And the wife, yesterday I had to buy her aspirins . . .”

  “Come on, man, don’t give me that crap. You ought to be thankful. Summer’s coming, and the epidemic won’t be far behind, and you’re going to be so busy you won’t know whether you’re coming or going. You’ve got to trust in God, man. Here, take this.”

  Sheikh Mohamed hesitated, clutching and unclutching his hand, before he decided to stretch it out and take the five-piastre note the undertaker was pushing at him. He felt it with his fingers, and shrank his neck deeper inside his robe. He screwed up his eyes and blinked; he rubbed the paper note between his fingers and folded it up and nearly gave it back but thought better of it. He peered through the mist that veiled his eyes.

  “All right, Mabrouk, I’ll have one piastre more.”

  But nobody heard him because Abou’l Metwalli and his bundle had already vanished in the crowd.

  ALL ON A SUMMER’S NIGHT

  Evening prayers were over. The hay was cold and piled high, and the night was dark and silvery. There was a grave and the clouds drifted over it fluttering in the air like the soft white handkerchiefs of lovers. Nearby lay our town crouching like a hedgehog, with its thorns, and sorrows, and trees, and we were there on the hay, talking, not like the grown-ups ruminating on their troubles, but mostly about ourselves. A dark force was just beginning to devastate our bodies, working a change in us which grew daily more evident and which we sensed with mixed feelings of joy and bewilderment.

  Although we had many troubles we never talked about them. We worked as hard as the men, perhaps harder, for they were inclined to be indolent, sitting in the shade while they left us to broil toiling in the fields. Sometimes they begged us, sometimes they ordered us but in either case we were happy. To work was to be a man, and that’s what we longed to be, and if we were made to work it meant we had grown up and that we were dependable and in the prime of life, with promise in our future. Soon we would marry and there would be processions and wedding feasts and celebrations in our honor.

  Having toiled all day we had voracious appetites. We devoured anything in sight and our mothers thrilled to see we were growing, and they’d feed us on the sly, much as they forcibly fed their ducks and their geese, keeping for us the choicest meats and eggs and cheese. We were growing fast, as though to make up for lost time, shaking off the paleness of a long childhood and the lean years. Our faces filled out taking the color of rich silt, our legs grew tougher, and our throats became thicker as our voices broke.

  We used to sit together on the hay in the evenings, our bodies a prey to that force which made us listless, neither giving ourselves up to dreams nor yet able to curb its powerful drive. The night shuddered with our voices and our new virility as we sat in that distant spot giving vent to thoughts we dared not voice except there where we smothered ourselves in the comforting coolness of the hay.

  Conversation came of itself. No one knew how it started but when it did it flowed on without end. The night was a refuge. We loved it like a beautiful woman who stirred our sleeping passions, soft and tender and ebony black, much as we hated the harsh and forbidding light of day.

  We used to measure ourselves the moment we got together, each one trying to prove he was the tallest. We made bets and the loser pretended he had a pain and a swelling in the thigh which he showed the others who assured him there was no reason to worry; the swelling only meant he was growing. And then we’d go on to describe the dreams that we dreamed, or to compare our voices, feeling one another’s throats. But invariably we ended up talking about women. The women of our town were like the majority of its dwellings, dark and flat and without curves. Some houses, though, were whitewashed, and we loved to imagine there was a beautiful woman inside every white house. It was about them, mostly, that we talked. For beautiful women must be easy to get, we decided, or else there was no point in their being beautiful.

  Sometimes we ran wild with our imagination, working ourselves up to a mad pitch of excitement and we would start throwing hay at one another and roll about and shout and howl like wolves. But soon we were forced to calm down before we were discovered by some watchman who would send us home where there was nothing but to flop on our pallets on top of the oven and fight off the lonesomeness and the bafflement and the demons inside us that prevented sleep. Only there on the haystack,
with one another, were the demons becalmed, and we found relief talking to one another.

  Mohamed was the pivot on whom we all hinged. He was older but no less bewildered than the rest of us although he was more experienced. He had left our town at an early age to go to work in the city. He was always in the thick of things and he always had something to tell. What’s more he knew about women, which was more than any of us could boast. None of us had any real experience of women. At most we ogled them from a distance, fearing and desiring them at the same time but quailing at the thought of anything more intimate. So we loved to listen to Mohamed, and we avidly lapped up the tales he used to tell us about his exploits. We were quite fond of him with his sprouting mustache and his long hair which he was allowed to grow as he pleased while we were forced by our fathers to crop ours short. He had a blond forelock which he was fond of smearing with vaseline borrowed from the stationmaster or, failing that, with butter. His woolen skull-cap was always tilted back on his head to show off his shining forelock. He also had a harelip that made him appear truculent, which in reality he wasn’t. He was jolly and good-natured and full of fun, and his skin was untanned by the scorching sun of the fields. He used to till the land at one time until he went to the city for some reason, and having had a taste of it vowed never to return to the plow. Sometimes as we sat with him we couldn’t help feeling he was not one of us but some stranger. One of those fast and clear-witted boys from the city whom we dreaded so much. On the whole we were not given to wrongdoing and we feared transgression, but we were emboldened by his example. It was he who showed us how to fill our laps with rubble as we entered our homes and replace it with corn or barley or cotton, and walk out unsuspected. It was he who arranged to sell the loot, keeping a portion of the gains for himself and with what was left we would buy ourselves halva and tangerines and bamboo canes with which we loved to swagger on market-days.