'No, not a penny. I was living in a nice clean flat in Wayliya. It had electricity and running water. I had a servant who called me 'sir,' and I went often to the cinema and the theater. I won a lot and I lost a lot, but that's life. Our lives are getting shorter daily, so why keep money? Still, I suppose one needs money up until the end. I've only a few pounds left, apart from my wife's jewelry.'
He clapped and ordered a third glass and continued: 'Worst of all, my wife vomited last week…'
Pretending concern at the news, Abbas said, 'Oh, that's nothing to worry about, I hope.'
'Nothing to worry about, but not good either. It's one of the signs of pregnancy, so my mother says. It's almost as if the fetus could see the life awaiting it and wants to take out its feelings on the mother.'
Abbas could no longer follow him; he seemed to be talking too rapidly and foolishly. Suddenly, melancholy replaced the past hour of peacefulness. His companion noticed the change and spoke: 'What's up? You're not listening to me…'
'Order me another drink,' replied Abbas abruptly.
Hussain was delighted to do so. He then looked quizzically at Abbas and spoke with some hesitation: 'You're worried about something and I know what it is.'
His companion's heart beat wildly and he replied quickly, 'Oh, it's nothing. Tell me about yourself. I'm listening.'
'Hamida,' said Hussain with a note of contempt in his voice.
Abbas' heart now beat as if he had swallowed another glass of the liquid fire. He felt betrayed and preyed upon at the same time.
'Yes, Hamida. She ran away with some stranger.' His voice was not quite steady.
'Don't be a fool and get too upset. Do you think life is any easier for men whose women don't run away from them?'
A calm settled on the young man and he said, almost unconsciously, 'What do you suppose she's doing now?'
'No doubt what any woman does who goes off with a man,' replied Hussain with a laugh.
'You're making fun of me.'
'Your misery is ridiculous. Tell me, when did you hear that she had disappeared? Yesterday evening? By now you should have forgotten all about her.'
Just then Awkal, the drunken newsboy, did something that drew the attention of the seated men. He staggered toward the tavern entrance and stood at the door, his eyes half closed and his head bent back proudly. Suddenly he shouted, 'I'm Awkal, the smartest fellow alive, the master of all men; I get drunk and feel great. Now I'm off to my beloved. Does anyone have any objections? Newspapers — the _Ahram,__ the _Misry,__ the _Baakuuka__…'
The boy disappeared from view, leaving a roar of laughter behind him. Hussain Kirsha spat fiercely on the spot where the lad had stood and let forth a torrent of blasphemy. Were the boy still within reach, he would have subjected him to physical violence, his hostility was so uncontrollable. He turned toward Abbas, who was gulping his second drink, and said defiantly, as though he had forgotten what they were discussing, 'This is life. This is not a child's game. We've got to live it. Do you understand?'
Abbas paid no attention. He was busy telling himself, 'Hamida will never come back. She is gone forever. And what if she does come back? If I ever see her again I'll spit in her face. That would hurt more than killing her. As for the man, I'll break his neck.'
Hussain talked on: 'I left the alley forever, but Satan pulled me back to it. I know, I'll set fire to it. That's the only way to free myself from it.'
'Our alley is wonderful,' Abbas commented wistfully. 'I never wanted anything more than to live in it peacefully.'
'You're just a brainless sheep! You should be sacrificed at the feast of al-Adha. Why are you crying? You're working, aren't you? You have money in your pocket. You're thrifty; soon you'll have saved up a lot of money. Why are you complaining?'
'You complain more than I do, yet I never heard you say a 'Praise be to God' in your life.'
His companion stared hard at him. This brought Abbas back to his senses. Now he spoke mildly: 'Well, that's not your fault. You have your religion, I have mine.'
Hussain laughed so loudly that the whole tavern seemed to shake. The wine now had a grip on his tongue. 'I'd do better as a bartender than in my father's cafe. I'll bet there are good profits here, and besides, a bartender gets his liquor free.'
Abbas smiled halfheartedly, and he decided to use caution in what he said to his explosive companion. The alcohol soothed his nerves, but instead of blotting out his misery, now all his thoughts centered on it.
Suddenly Hussain shouted, 'I've a marvelous idea! I'll adopt British nationality! In England everyone is equal. A pasha and a garbage collector's son are the same. In England a cafe owner's son could become Prime Minister…'
The notion attracted Abbas and he shouted, 'A great idea! I'll become British too…'
'Impossible,' said Hussain with a contemptuous curl to his lip. 'You're weak-kneed. You'd better adopt Italian citizenship… Anyway, we'll both go off on the same ship… Let's go.'
They paid their bill and left the tavern. Abbas turned to Hussain. 'Well now, where to?'
31
Perhaps the only hour of her past life that Hamida missed was her late-afternoon walk. Now she spent that hour standing before the huge gold-trimmed mirror in her room.
Having spent an hour painstakingly dressing and applying her makeup, she now looked like a woman who from birth had known only the luxuries of life. On her head she wore a white silk turban, under which her oiled and scented hair curled appealingly. She knew from long experience that her bronze skin was more attractive to the Allies, and so she left it its natural color. She applied violet-tinted shadow to her eyelids and carefully waxed and separated her lashes, their silky ends curling upward. Two graceful arches were drawn in place of her eyebrows. Her lips were painted a lush scarlet that accented her dazzling white teeth. Large lotus-shaped pearls dangled on chains from her ears. She wore a gold wristwatch, and a diamond-studded crescent brooch was pinned to her turban. The low neck of her white dress revealed a pink undergarment, and her short skirt drew attention to well- shaped legs. She wore flesh-colored silk stockings for no reason except that they were expensive. Perfume wafted from her palms, neck, and armpits. Things had indeed changed for Hamida!
From the very beginning Hamida chose her path of her own free will. Experience had shown her that her future life would be gaiety and pleasure mixed with pain and bitter disappointment. Hamida realized she had arrived at a critical point in her life. Now she stood perplexed and not sure where to turn.
She knew from the first day what was expected of her. Her instinctive reaction was to rebel. This she had done, not in the hope of breaking her lover's iron will, but simply for the love of the consequent battle. When eventually she gave way to the eloquence of Ibrahim Faraj, it was because she wished to do so. Hamida had entered into her new life with no regrets. She had justified her lover's comment that she was a 'whore by instinct.' Her natural talents made a stunning display; indeed, in a short time she had thoroughly mastered the principles of makeup and dress, even though at first everyone made fun of her vulgar taste. She had now learned Oriental and Western dancing, and she also showed a quick ear for learning the sexual principles of the English language. It was not surprising that she had become so successful. She was a favorite of the soldiers and her savings were proof of her popularity.
Hamida had never known the life of a simple respectable girl. She had no happy memories of the past and was now quite engrossed in the enjoyable present. Her case was different from that of the majority of the other girls, who had been forced by necessity or circumstances into their present life and were often tormented by remorse. Hamida's dreams of clothes, jewelry, money, and men were now fulfilled and she enjoyed all the power and authority they gave her.
One day she recalled how miserable she had been the first time when Ibrahim Faraj said he did not want to
