Naguib Mahfouz - Midaq Alley (Chapter 8) lyrics

Chapter 8 The warehouse is a source of noise in the alley throughout the day. The many workers never stop working, apart from during their short lunch break, and a stream of goods enters and exits in a continuous and swelling flow, along with a flood of customers and clients, while the rumble of huge trucks spreads through Boxmakers Street and neighboring parts of Ghouriya and Azhar streets. The warehouse sells herbs, spices, and apothecary's simples, wholesale and retail. While the interruption of imports from India due to the war had without doubt had a noticeable impact on the market, the ware­ house had kept up its reputation and standing even as the war reduced its activities and profits. Additionally, the circumstances of the war had drawn Master Salim Elwan into trading in goods to which in the past he had paid no attention, such as tea, and he played the black market, making huge profits. Master Salim Elwan was sitting at his enormous desk at the end of the corridor that led to the warehouse's inner courtyard, in which the goods were enclosed, the desk being a vantage point from which he could look out over both the inside and the outside of the warehouse, thus making it easy for him to keep an eye on workers, porters, and customers all at the same time. For all these reasons, and because "the true merchant had" (to use his expression) "to keep his eyes open all the time," he preferred to take this as his center of operations, rather than sitting in a room on his own, as did many of his fellow traders. ******** He woke in time for the afternoon prayer, performed his ablutions, and prayed. Then he put on his caftan and outer robe and went back to his desk, where he found the second gla** of tea awaiting him. He sipped at it gratefully, emitting rumbling belches that echoed through the inner courtyard. He attacked his work with the same enthusiasm with which he had embarked on it in the morning, but from time to time a certain disquiet seemed to overcome him. He would turn toward the alley and look at his huge gold watch, fingering, without realizing it, his nose. When the sunlight reached the top of the left­ hand wall of the alley, he turned his revolving chair, facing it toward the alley. Slow minutes pa**ed, during which his eyes never left it, then he co*ked his head to hear better and his eyes shone as he listened to the sound of slippers on the sloping ground. Hamida pa**ed in front of the door of the warehouse, her pa**age taking only a few seconds. He carefully twisted his mustache and turned his chair back to the desk, his eyes gleaming with pleasure, while aware, at the same time, of a degree of discomfort. It was difficult for him to accept this fleeting vision calmly after having waited for it anxiously and longingly for a whole hour. He was granted a sight of her only at this time, except for the rare occasions when he risked appearing in front of the warehouse as though seeking to relax by walking, and stole a glance at her window. Naturally, he took extreme precautions not to be seen, in order to preserve his status and dignity, He was, after all, Master Salim, she a girl of no pretensions, and the alley was aquiver with sharp tongues and agog with inquisitive eyes. He finished work and started tapping pensivelyon the desk with his forefinger. True, she was of no preten­ sions, and poor, but desire, alas, has no mercy, and the Appetitive Soul commands to evil! Of no pretensions and poor-but her bronze com­ plexion, the look in her eyes, and her trim figure, all these qualities had scant regard for cla**. And what was the point of standing on one's dignity? He was enamored of the bewitching eyes and the pretty face, the body that dripped seductiveness, the neat behind that made a mockery of the piety of old men. She was more precious than all the spices of India. He had known her since she was a young girl and would come to the warehouse to buy henna for her mother and the ingredients she reqnired to make fattening concoctions and post-natal restoratives. He had seen her breasts when they were the size of crab apples, then of doum-palm fruit, and had finally watched them mature into pomegranates. He had eyed her bu*tocks when they were but a smooth slab on which nothing had yet been built, then when they were a dainty curve on which maturity strutted its first proud steps, and finally when they were a globe, ripe with allure and femi­ ninity. The man hugged his growing admiration to himself until finally it gave birth to an imperious desire. He acknowledged it and ceased to try to deny it. How often had he said to himsel"If only she were a widow, like Mistress Saniya Afifi!" If she were a widow, he would have found a way out for himself, but given that she was a virgin, he needed to give the matter extensive thought. He asked himself, as he was given to doing, "What do I want?" and thought, bemusedly, of his wife and family. His wife was an excellent woman, adorned with all the femininity, motherly qualities, loyalty, and housekeeping sk**s that a man loves, and when young she had been pretty, and fecund. He could not, therefore, find anything to hold against her and, moreover, she was from a distinguished family that was superior to his in pedi­ gree and lineage. He acknowledged all her virtues and truly loved her, the only thing that annoyed him being that she had exhausted her stock of youth and vitality, and could no longer keep up with him or bear his advances. Given his extraordinary vitality he seemed, next to her, like a greedy youth, one who failed to find in her the pleasures that he craved. He didn't in fact know whether it was this was that attracted him to Hamida or whether it was his love for her that had made him aware of that painful vacuum. However that might be, he felt an irresistible desire for new blood, and thought to himself, quite frankly, "Why should I deny myself what God has made permissible?" On the other hand, he was a respectable man, and one very careful to ensure that everyone paid him due respect, and felt extremely dis­ tressed if he ever became the subject of gossip. He was the type of person who pays great attention to other people and their opinions, and would often quote the proverb that says, "Eat what you like but dress the way others like"; and, indeed, he ate his pan of green wheat. Hamida, though .... If she'd been from a good family, he wouldn't have hesitated an instant before asking for her hand. But how could he take Hamida as a co-wife to Mistress Effat? And how could Umm Hamida the Matchmaker become his mother-in-law, as Madam Olfat once had been? And by what manner of means could Hamida be the wife of the father of Muhammad Salim the Judge, Arif Salim the Lawyer, and Ha**an Salim the Doctor? There were other things too, of no less importance, that had to be evaluated very carefully. In a case such as this, a new household would have to be set up, there could be no doubt about that, with new expenses, which might be twice those of the old, and new heirs, who would likely destroy the cohesion of the family and blot its pristine page with enmities and hatred. And all these troubles would be for what? The weakness of a fifty-year-old man-a husband and a father to boot-for a twenty-year-old girl! As one who overlooked nothing where money and standard of living were con­ cerned, he was fully aware of all these issues, and kept going over them in perplexity and hesitation, never reaching a decision. His pas­ sion became one of the unresolved worries of his life, taking its place among the series of problems that refused to go away, such as the management and futnre of the warehouse, buying land and building on it, and becoming a bey, though more importunate and distressing. His mind would run through all these notions whenever he retired and allowed his mind free rein. When Hamida stood before his eyes, though, or appeared before them at her window, he could think of one thing only....