The Beginning and the End

THIRTY-NINE

Ali Sabri’s coffeehouse became a small nightclub, featuring songs, dances, and liquor. Above the entrance was a large sign bearing Ali Sabri’s name in big letters. There was a dais for the band at the farthest end of the interior, and tables and chairs were arranged at the entrance and along the two sides. Having finished his singing for the first performance, Ali Sabri sat down among his drinking customers to entertain them. Then a tall, glistening, muscular black man entered, his eyes portending evil. Standing on the threshold of the coffeehouse, the newcomer shouted in a loud, insolent voice, “Where’s the owner of this café?”

Hiding his astonishment with a faint smile, Ali Sabri walked up to him.

“Yes, sir?” he said.

“I’ve heard you’ve got the filthiest kind of liquor to be found in this district. Since good liquor no longer has any effect on me, I’ve come here to get drunk,” he said defiantly. Pushing Ali Sabri roughly aside, he went toward a table at which a number of relatively dignified men were sitting. Casting a savage look at them, he said authoritatively, “Clear this table!”

They all stood up and silently left the café. Examining the faces around him with insolent defiance, the intruder sat in a chair and stretched his legs onto another.

Approaching Ali Sabri, the café apprentice whispered in his ear, “This is Mahrous the Negro, a bully; everybody in the whole district is afraid of him.”

Worried, Ali Sabri asked, “Is he likely to stay long?”

“He frequents any café he likes, eats and drinks, and nobody dares ask him to pay. Perhaps he’s come to introduce himself to you. Or perhaps…”

The boy hesitated a little.

“Speak,” Ali Sabri urged him.

“Perhaps one of the café owners in the darb has incited him to destroy our coffeehouse!”

Casting a furtive look at the Negro, Ali Sabri observed that he was half asleep, apparently feeling secure and at home, and that the customers had deserted the nearby tables. His heart filled with fear and depression. He retreated silently to the dais, where Hassan was sitting with the rest of the band. He nodded to Hassan, and they both withdrew behind the buffet, where he confided to Hassan what the boy had told him.

“Maybe it would be better for us to ask Mistress Zeinab the Twanger to use her tact in this dire situation,” Ali Sabri suggested.

Inspecting Mahrous from a distance, Hassan replied, “I don’t approve of asking a woman for help. In this darb such a policy won’t do. Leave it to me.”

“They say that he is a terrible bully.”

“They say the same thing about me, too,” Hassan said with a smile, “though the people here don’t know it. Leave this matter to me.” Then he thought, sarcastically: My mother is not the only one who endures misery just to live.

“It will be a fierce fight,” he told Ali Sabri, “and unless we win, it’ll be impossible for us to make a living in this place.”

“Suppose we don’t win?”

“Trust God and me.”

Whatever the consequences, he would not avoid the forthcoming fight. After all, this was the only means by which he could enhance his own prestige in the eyes of Ali Sabri and throughout the whole district.

Perhaps Ali Sabri is right in worrying about the safety of his coffeehouse and his money, he thought. But my own future depends on the outcome of this fight. So let Ali Sabri himself go to hell. Besides, I should not forget that sooner or later a victory of this sort is my only means of gaining access to the girls of Zeinab the Twanger. My fortunes in life, and perhaps those of my family—this occurred to him as an afterthought—depend on the outcome of this fight.

Mahrous the Negro stirred. Stretching his limbs, he yawned and belched. “Where’s the filthy cognac we’ve heard so much about?” he bellowed.

Calmly and steadily, Hassan left his place. He walked up to the Negro and stood before him.

“Peace be upon you,” he said quietly.

Arrogantly the Negro raised his fiery eyes. He examined Hassan’s solid body and glistening eyes with malice and suspicion. He frowned angrily and his face assumed an inhuman glow.

“The curse of God be upon you and your mother! What do you want?” he shouted at Hassan.

“I heard you shouting for cognac, and I saw it was my duty to tell you that here we require payment in advance,” Hassan said in clear tones, preserving his veneer of calm.

Pulling his legs from the chair before him, Mahrous burst out into a long, affected laugh, beating his knees in excitement. Then he calmed himself and stopped, casting a disparaging look at Hassan.

“Are you the bouncer of the café?” he asked mockingly.

Hassan said quietly, “I should also like to tell you that your behavior is not proper.”

In the next few moments the nearby customers jostled their way out of the coffeehouse. The path facing the entrance was crowded with people of all ages. The workers at the buffet quickly concealed the bottles, glasses, and musical instruments — anything that could be broken. Mahrous still had a sarcastic smile on his thick lips.

Then, suddenly, he gave Hassan’s left leg a violent kick. Hassan staggered backward. Though he had been vigilant and wary, watching his rival, Hassan had been focusing his attention on Mahrous’s hands, expecting him to throw something or thrust a dagger at him; thus he hadn’t seen the kick coming until it actually hit him. Hassan staggered under the force of the kick, but he summoned sufficient strength to avoid falling down. Staggering backward, enraged at the pain, he clenched his teeth to overcome it. The Negro allowed him not a second’s rest. He jumped at him like a man diving into the water. Afraid lest he become an easy victim for his adversary, Hassan made no attempt to control his staggering. Instead, he jumped backward, crashing against the wall of the café, and thus evaded his powerful enemy. Mahrous gave Hassan no time to regain his balance. He attacked him with a blow to the abdomen, which Hassan blocked with his hands. With this punch, Mahrous had expected his adversary to expose his neck; as swift as lightning he seized Hassan’s throat in his iron hands, pressing them together brutally to strangle him. The fight seemed to be over. Ali Sabri’s head swam. The faces of the café workers and members of the band turned white. They exchanged worried looks, hoping someone would act to save their dying friend but remaining transfixed in their places. Expecting Hassan’s corpse to fall to the floor, the girls began to wail. As he began to lose consciousness, Hassan was suddenly aware that he could not escape the deadly grip of his rival, who held his neck in a vise. Realizing that the end was very near unless he did something to avert it, Hassan clenched his teeth and stretched the muscles of his neck, concentrating all his strength in it. Then, with all the force he could muster, he bent his right leg and drove his knee into his adversary’s groin. The Negro’s firm hold on his neck immediately relaxed. Shaking with anger as he regained his breath, Hassan gave his rival a second blow; all of this occurred in the first thirty seconds after the Negro’s attempt to strangle him. Finally Mahrous’s hands were lifted from Hassan’s neck and the Negro retreated with dazed, gloomy, bloodshot eyes, his face contorted with rage. Realizing that he was now master of the situation, Hassan wasted no time. He attacked his rival, who was now striving fiercely to shake off his pain. Using his forehead like a pile driver, Hassan butted his rival on the forehead. The two heads snapped dreadfully as they collided. The Negro dealt Hassan several terrible blows but these failed to weaken Hassan’s determination. Blood gushed from the Negro’s head, streaming over his face like flames on burning tar. He seemed to be struggling. Hassan recovered from the pain in his leg, neck, and chest, and with the side of his palm he delivered a blow to his adversary’s head as cutting as the sharp edge of a knife. The Negro groaned and fell unconscious to the floor. Thrilled with his victory, Hassan stood over his rival, his chest heaving. But with the danger passed, the pain began to mount. Had no one been watching him, Hassan would gladly have flung himself down beside his enemy. But the eager eyes of the onlookers forced him to compose himself. The screams, commotion, and shouts of the mob struck his ears. He sensed a strange movement throughout the café, and at the touch of a hand on his shoulder, he turned to see Ali Sabri smiling at him, his face deathly pale.

“Come with me,” Hassan heard him whisper in his ear. “I want to offer you a glass of cognac.”

He went with him in silence to the dais. He sat on a chair, and Ali Sabri brought him a full glass of cognac; Hassan drank it down and when he asked for another, Ali Sabri brought him one, and said, “You must be very tired.”

“The fight was inevitable,” Hassan murmured with confidence.

The waiter came. “They are calling you the Head* because you knocked him down with your head,” he said, laughing.

Hoping to avoid people’s glances, Hassan said to Ali Sabri, “Let’s wipe out all traces of the fight. Start the second singing performance!”

*In colloquial Arabic, this is a play on words, associating the expression which means “Russian” (a complimentary reference to a strong man) with “russiat,” which means “butting with the head.”