After Coffee

The Wolf Slayer-4

***

Zaki walked along the main road that extended from the mosque to the country road, splitting the village in half lengthwise. Every day, it was his habit to detour to the left when he reached the country road. He’d pass the waterwheel and then, when he reached the bridge leading to the Sa’ida’s village on the opposite bank, he would walk back in the opposite direction, past Khalil’s shop, until he reached another bridge leading to the mayor’s village. During this walk, he would scrutinise the village and watch whatever was going on. But today he felt no desire to scrutinise or inspect. It was as though the reins had slipped from his hand. He noticed that Khalil’s shop was closed and his aunt Nafisa had closed her door. There was no one by the canal. He stood for a long while under the sycamore tree that shaded the waterwheel and sighed. He’d been sixteen years old when his mother had said to him: ‘My God, Zaki. You’re all grown up. You’re a man now. Why don’t you want to make your mum happy?’

‘It’s still early for marriage, Ma.’

‘What marriage, boy? Did I say anything about marriage? I’m talking about houseguests.’

‘What houseguests, Ma?’

‘Won’t you man up a bit and bring back a visitor or two to the house?’

‘We’re blessed with my father for that, Ma.’

‘What’s this got to do with your old man? Where are your guests?’

‘Are you asking me to pick up visitors from the country road?’

‘Why not? If anyone throws a greeting your way, grab hold of them and swear on your life that they’ve got to join you, then bring him to the house or to the seera. Tell him he’s welcome. Take his donkey, tether it, and bring it some fodder. Then come to your ma and tell her to “get up, Ma, and cook”. Even if this is at ten o’clock at night. That would be a happy day. If that happened, you would make me so glad, Zaki, and I would know that you’re a real man now.’

That was his first lesson in generous hospitality, and he tested his mother several times to see if she would keep to her word. She never disappointed him.

He walked back down to the village, passed three houses to the right, and reached the seera. He still cursed the day some ignorant folk decided to build their homes opposite the seera, thus shielding it from view. When he was young, it could be fully seen from the country road, as though to welcome people as they arrived. It used to be open day and night, welcoming visitors and travellers who wandered in the night and whose horses had run out of steam. How far we were from the good old days.... There was no one left who knew when the seera was built and why it was given that name, but it had been there since his childhood, and it had been there throughout the life of his father and his aunt Zainab and her husband, Hajj Mansur. It was said that it’d been built during the era of Qassim, when he and his family settled in this area and established the village. That meant the seera was as old as the village of the Qassimis, and that Qassim would only settle his family in that location if there was a place to receive visitors. The seera and the mosque were two landmarks that characterised the village and were dear to the district. The residents of the neighbouring villages would come to perform the Friday prayers and celebrate the two Eid festivals in the mosque. They’d then be hosted in the seera. And the blessed Friday would not be complete without the congregational prayer and lunch. There was no match to the seera in the district - the mayor’s headquarters itself didn’t compare - since it was a focal point for guests, strangers, and poets, both secular and religious. It was both a guesthouse and an events hall. Then, as it aged, it started to deteriorate, just as the wall of the mosque had started to crack. Look what it had come to. Who could he complain to of his ordeal? There were words deep inside him he wanted to raise to God, but they were wedged in his throat. My Lord, help us and lift your hatred and anger from us. Then he entered the seera.

***

Khalil cut through the fields towards the village of the Salehis, ‘the sons of Saleh’. He could have walked on the country road along the canal, but the country road was never quiet, even at night, and he didn’t want anyone to see him. The sky ahead lay flat and crammed with stars, but his eyes were focused on only one goal: Ibrahim Abu Zaid’s house at the far edge of the village. He was a stranger who had come to the district before Khalil was born, heading straight to one corner of it, never visiting anyone nor being visited by anyone unless it was for a special purpose. The Salehis knew nothing of his family or background. But they knew, with the passing of time, that he was a drug dealer and a gang leader. Ever since he was a child, Khalil had heard that Ibrahim Abu Zaid was the one who masterminded the Nazlet Elwan incident. People said he was the one who gathered the members of the gang and delegated a role to each in the operation, while also ensuring he would emerge scot-free. When the police stormed his house and the investigation took its course, it was clear, based on definitive evidence, that the owner of the house had not left his home on the night of the incident. When Khalil first opened his shop, his father warned him firmly never to go to Ibrahim’s home and not to deal with him unless it was for a lawful reason. ‘The hashish and that other filth they snort is forbidden.’ Yet here he was, despite his father’s warnings, walking with his own two feet to Ibrahim to ask for help. Who else would he turn to? Where else could he seek help over what Salama had done? He had sullied the honour of Khalil’s sister and ruined her. Salama’s actions must have been calculated, relying on the fact that he was one of the Qassimis. The sons of Qassim thought they were the cream of the crop and that God had created them from a different dust from that of the Baharwa. Salama himself was poor and destitute - he had no land, cows or sheep - he earned his living as an agricultural labourer. Yet he would still strut around the village with his nose in the air because he was one of the Qassimis. How could he assault Khalil’s sister? Why didn’t she resist him? Why didn’t she call for help? Had she done that, it would have proved that he’d wanted to r**e her. But whatever happened passed without any fuss. No one would have found out about it had the news not spread. Could it be that his younger sister - a shy and inexperienced girl - brought this on herself? Salama - that poor and destitute guy - must have seen that she was a Baharwa girl whose honour wasn’t worth preserving. His sight was set on Ibrahim’s house, and he only wanted one thing: revenge. If only he could reach Salama, he would drink his blood. But how could he reach him? On the way to the village of the Salehis, he stopped several times, listening for a rustling between the corn reeds. ‘Maybe a wolf or a fox,’ he said to himself. Then he carried on walking, feeling for the darkened road with his staff.

***

Ibrahim Abu Zaid was about to start the night-time esha prayer. But when his daughter ran up crying, he stopped. ‘What’s wrong, Farida?’ he asked. The girl was sobbing so intensely that she couldn’t answer. Ibrahim - the man people called a ‘murderous murderer’, and who’d say of himself that his ‘heart was hardened by the troubles hammered into it’ - couldn’t stand to see his daughter cry. He felt so sorry for the girl that his heart fluttered in his chest. His older children were grown men with moustaches. But this skinny girl, granted to him by God ‘in his old age’ from his second marriage, was the apple of his eye. ‘Come sit next to me here,’ he said. As she sobbed, Farida told him that her mother had smacked her with the broomstick because she was playing with boys. ‘Never mind, my darling,’ he said, patting the little girl’s back. He called for the mother, who argued that the girl was growing up and it was high time she stopped playing with boys. Ibrahim patched things up between the two, but he winked at his wife before she left, giving her a look that meant, ‘Don’t be so strict. The girl is still a child’. Farida wiped her tears and told him that there was a man called Khalil Abu Radi waiting for him in the reception room, which made him smile. He was pleased with himself and his accurate assumptions. Khalil, the son of the Baharwa, had come to see him. Good. He had known, ever since the news had reached him, that the Baharwa people would have to seek his help. Who else would they ask to help them stand up to the sons of Qassim? The Baharwa were a peace-loving people who only cared about business and stacking up money and arable land. They never asked God for anything but protection, and they couldn’t confront the sons of Qassim, ‘the tyrants’. No one could dispense with his services - he was the stranger, the new arrival who had come to the district from afar. Some of his youth had been spent in Palestine, where he worked as a clothes presser for the Jews in Tel Aviv, and he’d had dealings with the British camps in the Suez Canal area, sometimes selling hashish to their soldiers and other times robbing their army. When he came to this district, everyone ignored him - the sons of Saleh and the sons of Qassim equally - yet they all sought his help. They couldn’t live without him. He told Farida to ask the guest to wait until he finished the esha prayer. Just before she left, he stopped her. ‘Offer him some tea, Farida.’

He received Khalil with a hug. ‘What a pleasure. Your presence is cherished, Mister Khalil. Welcome, welcome.’ Khalil started to talk. ‘I’m coming to you, Uncle Ibrahim, to ask for a favour.’ But Ibrahim interrupted him. ‘There will be no chitchat before you drink tea,’ he insisted. ‘You can’t come here and not drink our tea. Don’t worry, you’ll get what you want, God willing.’ What is he like, this guy? Khalil thought. This gang leader - he’s such a soft touch. He swallowed the hot tea before responding. ‘Uncle Ibrahim, I’m coming to you to ask for a favour that will put me forever in your debt. That kid, Salama…’ Ibrahim interrupted him again. ‘I heard about what happened, and your request will be fulfilled, by the will of the One and Only.’ ‘It’s the girl’s honour, you know,’ Khalil said. ‘I mean, I don’t know what to say.’ Overcome by emotion, Khalil fell silent. Ibrahim patted his hand. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I swear to God, my heart goes out to you and your father. May God take revenge against the oppressor.’ He paused, silently, for a moment. ‘Look, Khalil. Do you see my daughter, Farida? I couldn’t stand it if anyone touched a hair on her head. I know exactly what you mean.’ He gave Khalil a piercing look. ‘And your sister, Zakiya, is like my daughter.’ Khalil felt a shiver run through his body - the man was now getting to the heart of the matter. ‘I swear to God Almighty, I feel sorry for you and your father,’ Ibrahim said. ‘That righteous man who never hurt a soul. Then Salama Abu Sayyid goes and does something like that?’ Relief washed over Khalil — the man understood completely. He asked him what he thought should be done. ‘We can’t go near Zakiya,’ Ibrahim said. ‘May God take revenge against the one who hurt her. As for Salama…. As for Salama, we’ll need to deal with him in a different way.’ ‘You’re quite right, uncle Ibrahim,’ Khalil said. ‘Let us focus on Salama. But we don’t know where Salama went. He’s been hiding out for a week now, but God knows where.’ ‘Where would he go?’ Ibrahim replied. ‘He must be with his relatives. He’ll either be in Kafr Saqr or in al-Sharafa near Abu Kabir.’ ‘So how do we reach him?’ Khalil asked. Ibrahim smiled. ‘Leave that to your uncle Ibrahim.’ Khalil became quiet and looked down, worried. ‘But I’m afraid, Uncle Ibrahim,’ he said. There was still a question inside him that he didn’t dare utter. If Salama was killed in Kafr Saqr or in al-Sharafa or any other place, wouldn’t the police eventually find out who was behind the crime? Wouldn’t they be able to trace the matter straight to their front door? But Ibrahim reassured him. ‘Don’t worry about anything. We have our men in Kafr Saqr and in al-Sharafa. They’ll do everything necessary, far from you or me. A fight will erupt, one way or another, and we won’t have anything to do with it. Anyway, we’re not going to kill him. The men there will give him the beating of a lifetime and leave him crippled. And by the way, he won’t breathe a word himself about what happened to him or who beat him up. He won’t dare. Do you think what he did was trivial?’ There was a moment of silence before Ibrahim spoke again. ‘But you know, Mr. Khalil, these men…we need to please them.’ He stopped talking, but Khalil understood what he meant and put two pounds in the open palm. ‘Here’s a little something as a down payment.’ Ibrahim smiled brightly. ‘Whatever you see fit, Mr. Khalil. I would never haggle with you, I swear to God. For you, nothing is too dear to part with.’ He walked Khalil to the front door. ‘By the way, I want to tell you something about Zakiya. You should know that she hasn’t left the village.’ Khalil was stunned. ‘How do you know that?’ he asked. ‘Where would a girl like that go?’ Ibrahim told him. ‘To the Sa’ida people? Really?’ ‘Okay, so where in the village?’ Khalil asked. ‘Whose house is she hiding at?’ ‘God knows,’ Ibrahim replied. ‘But she must be at one of the Qassimi homes.’ Khalil was left speechless. After that, he didn’t utter a single word.