thin, dark-faced cafe owner, looking down at him. He stared at him glumly and hesitated a moment as though unable to believe his ears. Trying to ignore Kirsha's unpleasantness, he began reciting again, 'Abu Saada, the Zanaty, says that…'
The cafe owner shouted in angry exasperation, 'Are you going to force your recitations on us? That's the end — the end! Didn't I warn you last week?'
A look of disappointment came into the poet's face and he commented critically, 'I can see you have been living fast lately. Can't you take it out on someone else?'
Even more exasperated, Kirsha shouted again, 'I know what I said and what I want, you imbecile. Do you think I am going to allow you to perform in my cafe if you are going to slander me with your vile tongue?'
The old poet sweetened his tone a little as he tried to soothe the angry man and said, 'This is my cafe too. Haven't I been reciting here for the last twenty years?'
The cafe owner took his usual seat behind the till and replied, 'We know all the stories you tell by heart and we don't need to run through them again. People today don't want a poet. They keep asking me for a radio and there's one over there being installed now. So go away and leave us alone and may God provide for you…'
The old man's face clouded and he remembered sadly that Kirsha's cafe was the only one left to him and, indeed, his last source of livelihood and one which had served him well. Only the day before, the Castle cafe had sent him away. Old as he was, and now with his living cut off, what was he to do with his life? What was the point of teaching his poor son this profession when it had died like this? What could the future hold for him and how could he provide for his son? A feeling of despair seized him and increased in intensity when he saw the look of regretful determination on Kirsha's face. The old man pleaded, 'Slowly, slowly, Mr. Kirsha. Public reciters still have an appeal which won't disappear. The radio will never replace us.'
Firmly and decisively, however, the cafe owner replied, 'That is what you say, but it is not what my customers say and you are not going to ruin my business. Everything has changed!'
In despair, the old man insisted, 'Haven't people listened to these stories without being bored since the days of the Prophet, peace be upon him?'
Kirsha brought his hand down hard on the till and shouted, 'I said everything has changed!'
At this the absentminded and statuesque man wearing the gold-rimmed spectacles and the necktie moved for the first time. He turned his gaze to the cafe's roof and sighed so deeply that his friends almost expected pieces of flesh to come up with the passage of air. In a dreamy tone, he said, 'Yes, everything has changed. Yes, indeed, everything has changed, my lady. Everything has changed except my heart and it still loves the people of the house of Amir.'
He lowered his head slowly, moving it to the left and to the right as he did so, with movements gradually decreasing in extent until he at last returned to his previous immobile position. Once again he sank into oblivion. None of those present, accustomed as they were to his peculiarities, had so much as turned toward him, with the exception of the old reciter who looked at him and said appealingly, 'Sheikh Darwish, does this please you?'
The other man remained, however, as though lost to the world and said nothing. Just then another person arrived who was greeted with looks of admiration and affection, and they all responded enthusiastically to his greeting.
Radwan Hussainy was a man of impressive appearance, both broad and tall, a flowing black cloak covering his ample form, his face large and whitish with tinges of red. He wore a reddish-colored beard. His forehead seemed to shine with light and its surface gleamed with happiness, tolerance, and deep faith. He walked slowly, with his head slightly bent, and a smile on his lips announced his love for both people and life.
He chose a seat next to the poet's sofa and, as soon as he did so, the old man began to complain to him. Radwan Hussainy listened good-naturedly, although he knew well what the trouble was. Indeed, on a number of occasions he had tried to dissuade the cafe owner, Kirsha, from his intention to dispense with the reciter but he had always been unsuccessful. When the old man finished his complaint, Hussainy did what he could to console him and promised to help him find a job for the poet's son. He then generously placed some coins in his hand and whispered in his ear, 'We are all sons of Adam. If poverty descends on you then seek help from your brother. Man's provider is God and it is to God that any excess is due.'
As he said this, his fine face was filled with even greater radiance, just as all noble men, doing the good they love, become happier and more handsome through their actions. He had always taken care that not a single day should pass without doing some good deed or receiving in his home some abused or unfortunate person. From his love of goodness and his generosity he appeared to be richly endowed with wealth and property, but the fact was that he owned nothing except the house on the right hand side of Midaq Alley and a few acres of land in Marj. The people who lived in his house — Kirsha on the third floor, and Uncle Kamil and Abbas, the barber, on the first — had found him a kind and fair landlord. He had ignored the rights the special military edict had given him to raise the rent of first-floor tenants, out of compassion for the occupants of modest means. He was, in fact, in all his actions wherever he went, a man of compassion and sympathy.
His life, especially in its earlier stages, had been filled with disappointment and pain. The period he had spent studying at the University of al-Azhar had ended in failure. He had spent a considerable portion of his life within its cloisters and yet had not succeeded in obtaining a degree. Besides, he had been afflicted with the loss of his children and now none remained, although he had had several. He had tasted the bitterness of disappointment so much that his heart almost overflowed with a despair that nearly choked him…
His faith rescued him from the gloom of his sorrows to the light of love, and his heart now no longer held grief or anxiety. He was filled with an all-embracing love, goodness, and wonderful patience. He stepped lightly over the sorrows of the world, his heart soaring heavenward as he embraced everyone with his love.
As time brought him added tragedies, so had he increased in his patience and love. One day people saw him laying one of his sons in his last resting place while he recited the Qur'an, his face filled with happiness. They gathered around him comforting and consoling him, but he had only smiled and, pointing to the sky, said, 'He gave and He has taken back; all things are at His command and all things belong to Him. It would be blasphemous to sorrow.'
Thus he gave consolation to others. So it was that Dr. Booshy once said, 'If you are sick, then go to Mr. Hussainy for a cure. If you are despairing, then gaze at the light of his innocence to teach you hope. If you are sorrowing, then listen to him and he will make you happy again.' His face was a true picture of his inner self; he was the picture of grace in its most radiant form. As for the poet, he was already somewhat cheered and consoled. He left the couch, the boy following him carrying the fiddle and the book. The old man heartily shook Radwan Hussainy's hand and said goodbye to the other men in the cafe, pretending to ignore its owner, Kirsha. He threw a scornful look at the radio which the workmen had almost finished installing, gave his hand to the lad and drew him outside. They walked out of sight.
Life stirred once again in Sheikh Darwish and he turned his head toward the direction in which they had disappeared, mumbling, 'The poet has gone and the radio has come. This is the way of God in His creation. Long ago it was told in _tarikh,__ which in English means 'history' and it is spelled h-i-s-t-o-r-y.'
Before he finished spelling out the word, Karnil and Abbas arrived, having just closed their shops. Abbas came first; he had washed his face and combed his fair hair. Uncle Kamil followed, swaying like a palanquin, picking his feet up laboriously and deliberately as he walked. They greeted the company present, sat down and ordered tea. They no sooner arrived before they filled the air with gossip.
Abbas spoke first. 'Listen, everyone. My friend Uncle Kamil here has been complaining to me that he is likely to die any minute and, if he does, he won't have enough money to be properly buried.'
One of the men present muttered sarcastically, 'All's well with Muhammad's people!'
Some of the others commented that Uncle Kamil's profits from his sales of sweets would probably suffice to bury an entire nation. Dr. Booshy laughed and addressed Uncle Kamil. 'Are you still harping on dying? By God, you'll probably bury the lot of us with your own hands!'
Uncle Kamil, his voice high-pitched and innocent as a child's, replied, 'Be careful what you say and put your trust in God, my friend, I am a poor man…'
Abbas continued: 'I was upset by what Uncle Kamil told me. After all, his sweets have done us a lot of good and that can't be denied. So I have bought him a nice shroud as a precaution and put it away in a safe place until the inevitable time comes.' He turned to Uncle Kamil and went on: 'This is a secret I have been keeping from you deliberately. Now you can see I have made it known to everyone here, so that they can bear witness.'
Many of the men in the cafe expressed delight, trying to appear serious so that Uncle Kamil, who was famous
