to cheat his customers in the weight or quality of his merchandise. He had doctored the scales and used a particularly thick and heavy type of reinforced paper to weigh out the cheese and basturma, significantly adding to the cost. These deceitful practices made the people in al-Sadd al-Gawany Street dislike him and hope deep down that some evil would befall him.
Completely unlike Ali Hamama, his wife, Aisha, was enormously popular in the street. Just the mention of her name put a smile on people’s faces, and their eyes would light up with affection and admiration. As far as the men were concerned, Aisha radiated the allure of sinful and debauched delights, and even though they all tut-tutted in public about her behavior, they secretly wished their own wives possessed something of her femininity. The women, on the other hand, loved Aisha because she expressed what they could only dream about and never dared utter. Aisha’s most salient feature was that she knew no shame. She loved to prattle on in her hoarse voice and with her insouciant smile, in great detail, all about her conjugal practices. The women would cluster around her, hanging on to her every word, now and then letting out little shrieks of mirth or hiding their faces in embarrassment. She would declare that sex was the most beautiful thing in all creation and describe how she bathed and beautified her body every night, how she would perfume herself and lie in bed, waiting for her husband, in only her nightdress.
One of the women listening asked her, “Don’t you feel cold going to bed without your underwear on?”
Then, as part of the show, she would give a little cluck of denial, and wiggling her pursed lips from side to side to imply the hopelessness of the questioner, she would pause like a seasoned actor, waiting for the laughter to die down, before telling the woman flatly, “It’s what a husband gives a wife that warms her up. And let me tell you that without that particular thing a woman will never know the meaning of happiness.”
Vulgar talk was Aisha’s favorite pastime, just as some men like collecting stamps or playing chess. She would chat away to men and women with equal frankness. She used to hang out the laundry from the window at the back of her apartment, which overlooked a student residence, having first made sure that the top two buttons of her galabiyya were open. Thus, as she stretched forward over the line to pin out the clothes, her breasts would be exposed to any student standing on the balcony opposite, and she would pretend not to notice the scorching hot looks she attracted. One time, when a student plucked up his courage and uttered a comment about her beautiful cleavage, she was not angry nor did she scold him but started lecturing him about why a woman’s breasts need to be caressed during sex. She went into such detail that the teenage student became red and short of breath, whereupon he cut the conversation short so that he could dash off to the bathroom to ease himself. As if guessing what he was about to do, Aisha cackled and leaned over to pick up the empty laundry basket and flounced away from the window. In all fairness, she was not seeking a sexual encounter with the student. She just liked talking about sex. Nothing more, nothing less. The same way as any soccer fan enjoys talking about his favorite goals. Let us just say that Aisha enjoyed talking about sex as much as she liked the act itself, although, truth to tell, it was not quite clear whether she had ever cheated on her husband.
There was one ugly rumor claiming that Ali Hamama had amassed his fortune principally from hashish and had got his start working for a big dealer, who was nicknamed Mr. Handsome because of his stunning good looks. The gossips said that Mr. Handsome was in the habit of spending each evening at Hamama’s flat, where he and his host smoked so much hashish that Ali Hamama would drop off to sleep. At that point, Mr. Handsome would crawl into Aisha’s bed and spend the night with her. The people from the street who disliked Ali Hamama, and they were numerous, claimed that he only feigned sleep and would receive payment from Mr. Handsome in the form of favors, cash and free goods. God alone knows the truth. It should be noted, however, that Fawzy and Fayeqa, Ali and Aisha’s son and daughter, did not resemble each other at all. Fawzy was as dark skinned and unsavory looking as his father, whereas Fayeqa was beautiful with the gleaming white complexion of a Turk. Some people naturally inferred that Fawzy was his father’s son but that Fayeqa was the product of an illicit relationship between Aisha and the dealer, Mr. Handsome. Residents from the street were not inclined to repeat this calumny, however, because a person’s honor is a taboo subject, and when all was said and done, they loved Aisha too much to wish her any harm. They loved her not just for her outrageous manner and her saucy talk but because she also had a serious side, which revealed itself in times of crisis. When there was difficulty at hand, her feckless smile would fade, the vulgar joking would cease and her face would turn pensive as she listened intently to people’s problems and handed out heartfelt and considered advice. She never sent anyone away or put off helping a neighbor, whether it was in joyful times such as at a birth or marriage or in times of grief such as sickness, divorce or death.
The previous day, just after midnight, Ali Hamama had come home as usual after closing the shop. He wolfed down the dinner Aisha had prepared and was relaxing with his mint tea, when she took the opportunity of his good mood to raise a slightly thorny, sensitive and complicated subject: she wanted some money to buy their son, Fawzy, a suit.
The request took Ali Hamama by surprise, and he gawped at her but quickly straightened himself up and regained control. He uttered his brusque and peremptory refusal before slurping his tea as if to confirm the answer, but Aisha did not despair. She could get around him in various ways: she could butter him up, tell him how she prayed for his health and long life, point out that God Almighty had granted him a good living because he was a devoted father who never failed to provide everything for his family. She then moved on to describe Fawzy’s urgent need for a suit. What would people say if they saw the son of Hagg Ali Hamama, a man of such repute and who had made the pilgrimage, walking around in rags and tatters? But her argument, however strong and persuasive, had no effect whatsoever on Ali Hamama.
He would not budge and gradually started to take umbrage at Aisha’s insistence. Finally, she was obliged to use her biological weapon: she stood up, sighed deeply and sat down next to him on the sofa, right next to him, thigh against thigh, with her heady perfume filling his nose and letting him feel the heat of her body. He realized that, as usual, she was completely naked underneath her galabiyya. Not stopping there, she started to caress his lower abdomen. Ali Hamama sensed the blood pulsing in his veins, his heartbeat quickening and his vision blurring in the heat of passion. He almost put a hand on his wife’s warm and supple breasts, but he knew that submitting to her seduction would come at a serious financial cost. He got up and stepped away from the source of heat and sat down in the armchair in the opposite corner of the room.
Once he had collected himself, he started his rebuttal: “He has more than enough clothes already. Even if they are a bit worn, you can mend them! That’s the way to bring up a man. A child should know the value of money. Frittering it away on juvenile whims is the quickest way to go broke. And remember, Fawzy is a dunce, a good-for-nothing, useless! He’s seventeen and still at school. What does he need a new suit for? A reward for failure?”
Aisha looked at him and asked, “So we just let him run around in shabby clothes like a beggar?”
“If he keeps failing at school, he can go to hell for all I care.”
Hamama spoke those words calmly, avoiding Aisha’s glance.
She threw out a final challenge: “So, what’s your decision? Are you buying him a suit or not?”
“No,” Ali Hamama answered without hesitation.
Aisha growled, got off the sofa and stood in the middle of the room, shouting, “Shame on you! You’ll be the death of me. If you go on like this, I’ll have a stroke! Your son, the fruit of your loins, wants to buy a suit and you’ll pay. You should have some fear of God in you.”
“Oh, it’s God who told us to throw our money down the drain?”
“That’s just like you. Heartless.
