This was something unexpected that had not occured to her. If he were successful he could certainly provide some of the things she craved. A disposition like hers, no matter how rebellious and unmanageable, could be pacified and tamed with money.
Abbas muttered reproachfully, "Do you not want to pray for me?"
She answered in a quiet voice which sounded beautiful to his ears, although her voice was certainly not equal to her beauty. "May God grant you success…"
Sighing happily, he replied, "Amen. Answer her prayer, O God. The world will smile on us, with God's grace. If you are good to me, so is the whole world. I ask nothing of you except that you be happy."
Slowly she was emerging from her state of indecision. She had found a gleam of light in the darkness surrounding her, the gleam of glistening gold! Even if he did not interest or excite her, perhaps that gleam of light she so wanted might come from him and answer her craving for power and wealth. After all, he was the only suitable young man in the alley. This could not be denied. Happiness filled her as she heard him say, "Do you hear me, Hamida? All I ask is that you be happy."
A smile spread over her thin lips and she muttered, "God grant you success…"
He continued, overcome with delight: "It isn't necessary for us to wait until the end of the war! We will be the happiest two in the alley."
With a scowl she spat out, "Midaq Alley!" He looked at her in confusion but made no defense of the alley, which he preferred to any place in the whole world. Abbas wondered whether she despised it, as her brother Hussain did. They really had sucked from one breast, then! Wishing to do all he could to erase the bad impression, he said, "We will choose a place you like. There's Darasa, Gamaliya, Bait al-Qadi — choose your house wherever you wish."
She listened in embarrassment to what he said and realized that her tongue had betrayed her in spite of herself. Hamida bit her lip and said disbelievingly, "My house? What house do you mean? What have I got to do with all this?"
Full of reproach, he asked, "How can you say that? Aren't you satisfied with torturing me? Don't you really know which house I mean? God forgive you, Hamida. I mean the house we will choose together — no, the house _you__ will choose all by yourself. It will be your house, just yours, and will belong to no one else. As I told you, I am going away to earn money for this house. You prayed for success for me and now there is no backing out of the wonderful truth. We have reached an agreement, Hamida, and the matter is decided."
Had they really reached an agreement? Yes, they had! If not, she would never have agreed to walk and talk with him and get involved in dreams about the future. Where was the harm in that for her? Was he not bound to be her young man anyway? Despite this she felt some apprehension and hesitancy. Was it true that she had become a different girl who had almost no power over herself anymore?
When she reached this point in her thoughts, she felt his hand touch and grip hers, giving warmth to her cold fingers. Should she take her hand away and say, "No, I will have nothing to do with that sort of thing." However, she said and did nothing.
They walked along together, her hand in his warm palm. She felt his fingers passionately press her hand and she heard him say, "We will meet often… won't we?"
She refused to say a word. He tried again: "We will meet often and plan things together. Then I will meet your mother. The agreement must be made before I leave."
She withdrew her palm from his hand and said anxiously, "Our time is up and we have gone a long way… let's go back now."
They turned on their heels together, and he laughed delightedly as some of the happiness which had ebbed in his heart returned. They walked off quickly and reached Ghouriya Street, where they parted, she to go down it and he to turn toward Azhar Street back to the alley via Hussain Street.
11
"O God, grant me your forgiveness and mercy."
Mrs. Kirsha spoke this phrase as she entered the building where Radwan Hussainy lived. She asked God's forgiveness and mercy for the despair, rage, and exasperation that she was suffering. She was determined to reform her husband but seemed powerless to restrain him. In the end she had seen no way out but to consult Radwan Hussainy. She hoped that, with his righteousness and venerability, he might succeed where she had failed. She had never before come to Hussainy about her affairs. But now her despair and her concern for the gossips had forced her to knock hopefully on his virtuous door.
It was Hussainy's wife who received her inside the house and they sat together for a while. Mrs. Hussainy was in her mid-forties, an age many women highly respect and consider the peak of their maturity and femininity. This lady, however, was thin and worn. Her body and mind reflected fate's scars which had removed her children one after another from her arms. For this reason, she gave her quiet house an air of sadness and melancholy which even her husband's deep faith could not dispel. Her slimness and wistfulness contrasted with her strong and healthy husband, who beamed in contentment. She was a weak woman, and her faith, although firmly rooted, was not able to diminish her steady decline. Mrs. Kirsha knew what she was like and unhesitatingly released her troubles, quite convinced that she would find a sympathetic audience. Mrs Hussainy eventually excused herself and went to find her husband. After a few minutes she returned and led the visitor to see him in his room.
Radwan Hussainy was sitting on a rug saying his beads, an open brazier in front of him and a pot of tea by his side. His private room was small and neat, with an armchair in each corner and on the floor a Persian carpet. In the middle of the room stood a round table piled with yellowing books, above which a large gas lamp hung from the ceiling. He was dressed in a flowing gray gown and a black woolen skullcap, beneath which his white face, flecked with red, shone forth like a brilliant full moon. He spent a great deal of time in this room alone, reading, saying his beads, and meditating.
It was here too that he met with his friends, all men like himself learned in their religion. They would sit and exchange tales and traditions of the Prophet and discuss the opinions expressed in them. Radwan Hussainy was not a scholar claiming to know all about holy law and Islam, nor was he unaware of his limitations. He was merely a sincere believer, pious and God-fearing. He captivated the minds of his scholarly friends with his generous heart, tolerance, compassion, and mercifulness. All agreed he was truly a saintly man of God.
He stood to receive Mrs. Kirsha, his eyes modestly lowered. She came over to him, veiled in her outer gown, and gave him her hand wrapped in one of its corners, in order not to spoil his state of ritual cleanliness.
"Welcome to our much-respected neighbor," he said, greeting her and offering her a seat.
She sat down in the armchair facing him while he squatted on the fur rug. Mrs. Kirsha invoked blessings upon him: "May God honor you, sir, and grant you long life, with the generosity of the chosen Prophet."
He had already guessed the reason for her call and therefore refrained from making any inquiry concerning the health of her husband, which was the customary polite duty of a host. He knew, as did everyone else, of Kirsha's conduct, and news had reached him of the disputes and quarrels which had broken out violently on previous occasions. Now he realized he was unfortunately to be involved in this ever-recurring dispute. Hussainy submitted to the inevitable and met it with the same welcome he always gave to unpleasant affairs. He smiled graciously and, encouraging her to speak out, said, "I hope you are well."