Classic Short Fiction: Mahmoud al-Badawi’s ‘The Peddler’

Critic Sabry Hafez writes, in the Journal of Arabic Literature, that, “Amongst the men of letters of his generation, Mahmud Al-Badawi (b. 1911) stands as a lone and unique literary figure. He spent his literary life away from the limelight of public fame despite his substantial contribution to the development of Egyptian literature.” Al-Badawi started his literary career in the early 1930s, translating Chekhov’s short stories, and he remained focused on the short form, publishing nineteen collections in his lifetime.

The Peddler

By Mahmoud al-Badawi

Translated by Mardy Zenbaa

One winter night, I left Dr. Hosny’s hospital in Abdeen and took Tram 17, which was headed to Sayyidah Zainab. I wanted to pray two rak’ahs to God in the Grand Mosque, in devotion and thanks to Him in His glory, for my father’s survival of the serious four-hour surgery he had undergone earlier that day. In truth, the surgery’s chances of success had been so slight that the doctor himself had been hesitant to operate. Then he put his trust in God and prayed two rak’ahs before donning his white coat and stepping into the operating theater. Now, I took the tram, my heart turning to God. Just like him, I would pray my two rak’ahs in the Grand Mosque.

It was a bitterly cold night, such that people had stayed indoors since sunset. The tram’s passengers were scattered across its wooden seats, so few that I was the only passenger in the first-class compartment. A paunchy, burly man stood just outside the compartment near the steps, and he started chatting with the conductor until the conductor fell so deeply in conversation with him, he forgot both the passengers and selling them tickets. When the burly man got off the tram at the roundabout, the conductor moved to the end of the car, then turned back, tapping his pencil against the wooden ticket to alert the passengers to his approach. He seemed cheerful despite the intense cold, the arduous work, and certain passengers’ fare-dodging.

At Sheikh Rihan Street, an elderly man climbed on by the back steps, near where I sat. He stood in the designated standing area, and the conductor strode toward him, tapping his pencil against the back of the ticket holder.

• “Tickets, old man,” the conductor called out.
• “Honestly, son, I haven’t yet sold a single thing,” the old man replied. “I’m only going one stop.”
• “One stop, Sheikh Ibrahim?”” the conductor asked.
• “Yes, and I wouldn’t have gotten on, son, except I’m so utterly exhausted.”
• “Come on, Sheikh Ibrahim, then out with those jars you’ve buried under the tiles! Out with them!”
• “Jars?”
• “Yes, jars! And you own four buildings in the neighborhood…”
• “Me?”
• “Yes, by God, you!”
• “May God hear you and grant me wealth. Who dislikes being rich?”
• Sheikh Ibrahim laughed until his molars showed.

He was frail and poor, his flesh wasted away and his bones poking out. Years had stooped his back. He wore a dark wool jubbah and a green silk caftan with faint stripes. Both of his garments were old and tattered, with wide, torn sleeves. It was clear from how loose they were that the clothing hadn’t been made for him or tailored to his size. He trembled with old age, and his cloudy eyes suggested that he saw with difficulty. He held several small Qurans and books of awrad and religious supplications, all tucked in a worn leather wallet that was stained with old sweat.

I was touched by the old sheikh’s frail condition and felt pity for his old age. I would have liked to invite him to sit beside me, but then I saw him about to get off.

I quickly took a twenty-five piaster note from my pocket, crumpled it, and placed it in his hand. He pushed it back with the force with his whole body, his eyes brimming with tears. But I put the note back in his hand, and, at that moment, the tram moved, carrying me away from him. The old man kept the note in his hand, looking around in confusion. He remained standing at the station for a few seconds, then moved away with heavy steps.

After the tram had traveled just a few meters, it stopped because of a breakdown on the tracks. It quickly occurred to me that I might follow the old man and find out where he was going on this night. Would he sleep against the wall of one of his buildings, or perhaps the wall of a mosque? I hurried on until I spotted him in the distance, walking with his previous heavy gait. I followed him unnoticed down El-Khalig Street until I saw him turn right into Qawawir, which was a narrow, dead-end alley. Its old houses, with their delicate mashrabiyas and wooden balconies, were still clearly visible in the darkness.

He knocked on an old door, and I stood at a distance, watching him. The darkness made it hard to see him clearly. No one answered, so he knocked again. After a few moments, an old woman dressed in black emerged from inside. Two children clung to her dress and came out with her, and when they caught sight of the visitor, their faces beamed. I saw recognition and joy in the eyes of all three at the man’s arrival. Sheikh Ibrahim handed the old woman the banknote I had given him a quarter of an hour earlier.

• “What is all this, Sheikh Ibrahim?”
• “It’s a provision for the children; God brought it to them.”
• “And you, have you had dinner?”
• “Yes, I’ve eaten, and thanks be to God.”

The woman thanked him warmly and acknowledged his kindness. The man greeted her and left, his head bowed, carrying his Qurans and religious books. As he approached the Sayyida Zeinab Mosque, he sat down by the entrance, displaying his wares to those entering and exiting. A passerby bought a Quran from him, placing five piasters in his hand. I saw the old man scurry across the square, buy a loaf of bread and something to spread on it, and sit by the mosque wall to eat his dinner, his face radiating joy. When I entered the mosque to pray, the image of the old man remained in my mind, and I prayed to God to extend his life, for he was a fount of goodness for humanity.

Read “البــائع الجــوال” in the original Arabic.

Mahmoud al-Badawi (1911-1986) was an Egyptian short-story writer and translator who brought out nineteen short-story collections.

Mardy Zenbaa is an English<>Arabic translator. His published works include translations of Sex and Religion: Teachings and Taboos in the World Faiths by Dag Øistein Endsjø (2020), The Physician by Noah Gordon (2023), After the Sun by Jonas Eika, and Grow Rich! With Peace of Mind by Napoleon Hill (2024). He has also translated numerous short stories and essays, including “The Other Place” by Mary Gaitskill, “The Martyr” by Katherine Anne Porter, “Beyond the Trauma Narrative” by Aminatta Forna, and “The Kiss” by Elizabeth Baines. From Arabic into English, he translated Naseem al-Saba in the News of Islam and the Scholars of Yorubaland by Adam Abdullah Aluri (2017).