She moved threateningly toward the youth, who retreated until he reached Sheikh Darwish. "Do you want to ruin my home, you rake and son of rakes!"
The youth, trembling violently, answered, "Who are you? What have I done so as to…"
"Who am I? Don't you know me? I am your fellow wife…"
She fell upon him, punching and slapping him forcefully. His tarboosh fell off and blood flowed from his nose. She then grasped his necktie and pulled it till his voice trailed off in a strangled gasp.
All the customers in the cafe sat stunned, gaping wide-eyed in amazement at the spectacle. They thoroughly enjoyed witnessing such a dramatic scene. Mrs. Kirsha's yelling soon brought Husniya, the bakeress, racing to the spot, closely followed by her husband, Jaada, his mouth open. Then, after a moment or two, Zaita, the cripple-maker, appeared; he remained standing a little way off, like a small devil the earth had belched forth. Soon all the windows of the alley's two houses were flung open, heads peering down at them. Kirsha watched the boy twisting and writhing in pain, trying to free his neck from the woman's strong grip. He charged toward them, literally foaming at the mouth like an enraged stallion. He grasped his wife's two arms, shouting in her face, "Leave him alone, woman, you have caused enough scandal!"
Her husband's strong grip forced Mrs. Kirsha to release her rival. Her cloak fell to the ground and her blood was now boiling. Her voice rose in a shrill scream as she grasped her husband by the collar and yelled, "Would you hit me to defend your friend, you animal? Bear witness, all you people, against this lecherous villain!"
The boy grasped this opportunity to escape and streaked from the cafe, scared out of his wits. The battle between Kirsha and his wife continued, she holding tightly to his collar and he trying to free himself from her grasp. At last Radwan Hussainy came between them and ended their struggle. Mrs. Kirsha, panting for breath, wrapped herself in her cloak and, shouting in a voice loud enough to crumble the walls of the cafe, addressed her husband: "You hashish addict! You nincompoop! You filthy lout! You sixty-year-old! You father of five and grandfather of twenty! You bastard! You dumb oaf! I feel like spitting in your dirty, black face!"
Mr. Kirsha, quivering with emotion, stared at her in a fury and yelled back, "Hold your tongue, woman, and take away that toilet of a mouth of yours; you're spraying us all with its filth!"
"Shut your mouth! You are the only toilet around here, you scarecrow, you disgrace, you rat bag!"
Shaking his fist at her, he shouted, "Raving as usual! What's come over you, attacking my cafe customers like that?"
His wife gave a loud, hollow laugh. "Customers of the cafe? I beg your pardon! I did not mean any harm to your cafe customers. I wished to attack your lordship's special customer!"
At this point Radwan Hussainy interrupted her again and begged her to let the matter rest and go back home. However, Mrs. Kirsha, a new note of determination in her voice, refused, saying, "I will never go back to the house of that filthy man as long as I live."
Hussainy tried to insist and Uncle Kamil volunteered his help, saying in his angelic voice, "Go home, Mrs. Kirsha. Go home, put your trust in God, and take Mr. Hussainy's advice."
Hussainy tried to prevent her from leaving the alley and only left his position when she entered the house, grumbling and giving vent to her indignation all the way. At that Zaita disappeared, and Husniya, followed by her husband, left the scene. As they went off, she punched him in the back and said, "You're always moaning about your bad luck and asking why you're the only husband who is beaten! Did you see how even your betters are beaten?"
The turmoil of the battle left a heavy silence. The onlookers exchanged amused glances of malicious delight. Dr. Booshy was the most amused and delighted of all. He shook his head and said in tones of mock sadness, "There is neither might nor power but in God. May God do what He can to patch things up."
Kirsha stood rooted to the spot where the battle took place. He now noticed that the boy had fled and he scowled in annoyance. Just as he was about to go and look for him, Radwan Hussainy, who stood not far away, placed his hand on his shoulder and said quietly, "Sit down and rest, Mr. Kirsha."
Kirsha snorted in anger and slowly took a step back, saying to himself, "The bitch! But it's really my own fault. I deserve even worse than that. What a fool a man is who doesn't use a stick on his wife!"
The voice of Uncle Kamil was once again heard as he said, "Put your faith in God, everyone."
Kirsha flung himself back into his chair. Then indignation overcame him again and he began beating his forehead with his clenched fist and shouting, "In the old days I was a murderous ruffian. Everyone in this district knew me for the criminal I was, swimming in blood. I am a criminal, a son of a dog, a beast, but do I deserve everyone's contempt because I reformed my evil ways?" He raised his head and went on: "Just you wait, you bitch! Tonight you are going to see the Kirsha of the old days!"
Radwan Hussainy clapped his hands together as he sat stretched out on the sofa and addressed Kirsha: "Put your faith in God, Mr. Kirsha. We want to drink our tea in peace and quiet."
Dr. Booshy turned to Abbas and whispered in his ear, "We must bring about a reconciliation between them."
"Between whom and whom?" the barber asked wickedly.
Dr. Booshy concealed his laugh as best he could, so that it issued like a hiss from his nose.
"Do you think he will come back to the cafe after what has happened?" he asked Abbas.
The barber pouted and replied, "If he doesn't come back another one will."
The cafe had now taken on its usual atmosphere and everyone played games or chatted as before. The battle was almost forgotten and it would have left no trace had Kirsha not burst out once again, shouting and roaring like a trapped beast, "No, no! I refuse to submit to the will of a woman. I am a man. I am free. I can do what I like! Let her leave the house if she wants to. Let her roam with the street beggars. I am a criminal. I am a cannibal!"
All of a sudden Sheikh Darwish raised his head and said, without looking toward Kirsha, "O Kirsha, your wife is a strong woman. Indeed, she has a masculinity which many men lack. She is really a male, not a female. Why don't you love her, then?"
Kirsha directed his fiery eyes toward him and yelled into his face, "Shut your mouth!"
At this, more than one of those present commented, "Oh, even Sheikh Darwish now!"
Kirsha turned his back on the old man in silence and Sheikh Darwish went on: "It's an old evil. In English they call it 'homosexuality' and it is spelled h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l-i-t-y. But it is not love. True love is only for the descendants of Muhammad. Come, my lady Zainab, granddaughter of the Prophet… come, madam… I am weak, O mother of weak ones."
13
How his meetings in Azhar Street had changed life for Abbas! He was in love. A new fire burned within him, desire melting his nerves and intoxicating his brain. He felt gay and confident, like a carefree troubadour knight — or perhaps a tippler safe in a familiar bar.
They now met frequently and their conversations never failed to center on their future. Yes, they now planned their futures as one, and Hamida made no attempt to resist the idea, either in his presence or away from him. She often asked herself whether any of her factory girlfriends could hope for anyone better. She made a point of walking with him just at the time when they left work and she delighted in watching their curious glances and in seeing the impression he made on them. One day they asked her about the young man "whom they had seen with her" and she had replied, "He is my fiance. He owns a barbershop."
She asked herself which one of them would not consider herself lucky to become engaged to a cafe waiter or blacksmith's apprentice. Indeed, he was the owner of a shop, definitely middle-class. Moreover, he wore a suit. She constantly made practical comparisons, but never allowed herself to be drawn into his magical world of dreams. Only occasionally and briefly was she emotionally moved and at these rare times she seemed to be truly in love.