Umm Hamida beat her breast and cried, 'You serpent's child, you!'
Hamida noticed traces of hidden approval in her foster mother's eyes and she cried, laughing, 'Go and marry him yourself, go on.'
This pleased the woman and she clapped her hands together and snapped, 'It's just like you to sell a dish of sweets in exchange for the bowl of spiced green wheat.'
'On the contrary, I've refused a young man and chosen an old one.'
'There's plenty of fat on an old rooster!' roared her foster mother. She settled down comfortably on the settee and soon forgot her mock opposition to the girl. She took a cigarette from a case, lighted it, and smoked it with a look of deep pleasure on her face.
Hamida looked at her and burst out angrily, 'By God, I think you are twice as pleased as I with my new fiance. You were just deliberately trying to make me mad! God damn you!'
The older woman stared at her and spoke slowly and meaningfully. 'When a man like Mr. Alwan marries a girl, he's really marrying her whole family, just as when the Nile overflows, it floods all Egypt. Do you understand what I mean? Or do you think you're going off to your new palace while I stay here under the care of Mrs. Saniya Afify and others like her?'
Hamida, who was braiding her hair, burst into laughter and said with exaggerated pride, 'In the care of Mrs. Saniya Afify, and Mrs. Hamida Alwan!'
'Of course… of course, you street orphan, you daughter of an unknown father.'
Hamida went on laughing. 'Unknown, that's right! Unknown! But many known fathers aren't worth that!' she said, snapping her two fingers in her foster mother's face.
The next morning Umm Hamida cheerfully set out for Alwan's office to read the Qur'an and to confirm the engagement. She had not a care in the world. However, she did not find Mr. Alwan at his desk, and when she inquired, she was told that he would not be in that day. She returned home, her happiness replaced by a feeling of uneasiness. Halfway through the morning, the news spread through the alley that the previous night Salim Alwan had suffered a heart attack. He was now in bed hovering between life and death.
A swift wave of sadness spread through the alley, but in Umm Hamida's house the news struck like a thunderbolt.
19
One morning Midaq Alley awoke to a tumult of great noise and confusion. Men were setting up a pavilion in a vacant lot in Sanadiqiya Street, opposite Midaq Alley. The sight distressed Uncle Kamil, who thought they were constructing a funeral pavilion. In his shrill, high voice he wailed, 'We all belong to God and to Him will we return; O Almighty, O Omniscient One, O Master.' He shouted to a youth passing in the street and asked him who had died.
'The pavilion isn't for a corpse, it's for an election campaign party!' answered the boy with a laugh.
Uncle Kamil shook his head and mumbled, 'Saad and Adly again.' He knew nothing of the world of politics, apart from a few names he had picked up without comprehending their significance. Oh yes, hanging in his shop was a huge picture of the politician Mustafa al-Nahas, but that was only because one day Abbas bought two- pictures of the leader and one was hung in the barbershop, the other he gave to Uncle Kamil. He saw no harm in hanging it in his shop and anyway such pictures were part of every shop's decor. Why, even in the grocer's in Sanadiqiya Street there were two pictures of the nationalist leaders, one of Saad Zaghlul and the other of Mustafa al-Nahas. And in Kirsha's cafe there was a picture of the Khedive Abbas.
Piece by piece they continued building the pavilion; vertical struts were put up and ropes tied between them on which screens were hung. The floor was covered with sand; chairs were set up on both sides of a narrow middle passage leading to a raised stage inside the pavilion. Loudspeakers were on all the street corners between the mosque of Hussain and Ghouriya Street. But the best thing of all was the wide-open entrance to the pavilion, which allowed the alley people to watch the spectacle from their houses. Above the stage was a picture of the Prime Minister and under it one of Farhat, the candidate, whom most people in the quarter knew. He was a merchant on Nahasin Street. Two boys walked about putting posters on the walls. On them was printed in brilliant colors:
Elect your independent candidate, Ibrahim Farhat,
In accord with the original principles of Saad.
The days of tyranny and destitution are over.
Now is the time of justice and prosperity.
They tried to paste a poster on Uncle Kamil's shop, but Abbas' departure had had a shattering effect on him and he prevented them firmly, 'Not here, my fine fellows. It would bring bad luck to cut off my livelihood.'
'No, it could mean a fortune for you,' said one of the boys. 'If the candidate sees it today, he'll buy up your whole stock of sweets at double the value.'
By midmorning the work was completed and the area took on its usual quietness. This lasted until late afternoon, when Ibrahim Farhat appeared to direct the operation. He was surrounded by his retinue. Although not stingy, he was a merchant who always made the most minute scrutiny of his budget, thus spending only what was absolutely necessary. A short, stocky man, he strutted at the head of the crowd dressed in a flowing robe. His brown circular face, with its active eyes, surveyed everything as he walked. His stride expressed the man's pride and self-confidence and his eyes revealed his honest simplicity. His appearance indicated that his belly was of far greater importance than his head.
His arrival created a stir in the alley and the surroundings, for they all considered him the man of the moment, as it were, and hoped for considerable benefit from his bounty. Behind him were groups of boys, following a man in a suit who kept shouting in a voice of thunder, 'Who will be our deputy?' The youths chanted, 'Ibrahim Farhat.' 'Who is the son of this district?' and they yelled back, 'Ibrahim Farhat,' and so on. This continued until the street was full of youths, many of whom entered the pavilion. All this time the candidate acknowledged the shouts by raising his hands above his head.
Eventually he moved toward the alley, followed by his retinue, most of whom appeared to be weight lifters from the local sports club. He approached the old barber who had taken over Abbas' place and held out his hand, saying, 'Peace be upon you, brother Arab.' He then bowed low in humble greeting and passed on to Uncle Kamil, saying, 'Please don't bother to get up; please, for our Lord Hussain's sake, remain seated. How are you? God is great, God is great. My, this sweetmeat of yours looks delicious, as everyone will know tonight.'
He passed on, greeting everyone, until he arrived at Kirsha's cafe. He saluted Kirsha and asked his companions to be seated. People streamed into the cafe from all sides; even Jaada, the baker, and Zaita, the cripple-maker, were there. The candidate surveyed the assembled multitude with delight and then turned to Kirsha, 'Please serve everyone tea.'
He smiled in reply to the thanks from all parts of the cafe, and then said to Kirsha, 'I hope the cafe will be able to supply the pavilion's needs.'
'We are at your service, sir.'
Kirsha's stiffness did not escape the candidate, who said politely, 'We are all sons of the same district, we are all brothers!'
Farhat had come to the cafe with the firm intention of winning over Kirsha. He had invited him to call some days previously, in the hope of gaining the support of Kirsha and those other cafe owners and workmen over whom Kirsha had influence. Farhat had offered him fifteen pounds for his support. Kirsha had refused, protesting that he was just as good as al-Fawal, who owned another cafe and who had reportedly received twenty pounds. Eventually, Farhat persuaded him to accept the money and made a promise of more. They had parted with the candidate feeling apprehensive that Kirsha might rebel against him. Indeed, Kirsha was still annoyed with those 'politicos,' as he called them, and would continue to harbor ill will unless he was offered a substantial sum for his support.
