ترجمة بالصفحات (٣,٤,٥) مـــن رواية ابو نواس(زقاق المدق).

تنطق شواهد كثيرة بأنه زقاق المدق كان مـــن تحف العهـــود الغابرة، وأنه تألق يومـــا فــي تاريخ القاهرة المعزية كالكوكب الدرى . أي قاهرة أعنى ؟ . . الفاطمية ؟ .. الممـــاليك؟ السلاطين ؟ علم ذلك عند الالية وعند علمـــاء الآثار، ولكنه علــى أية حال أثر، وأثر نفــيس . اليةة لا واليةه المبلط بصفائح الحجارة ينحدر باليةة مباشر إلــى الصنادقية تلك العطفة التاريخية، وقهـــوته المعروفة بقهـــوة كرشة تزدان جدرانها بتهاويل الأرابيسك، هذا إلــى قدم باد، وتهدم وتخلخل، وروائح قوية مـــن طب الزمـــان القديم الــذي صار مع كرور الزمـــن عطارة حيث اليوم والغد . . !
ومع أنه هذا الزقاق يكاد يعيش فــي شبه عزلة عمـــا يحدق به مـــن مسارب الدنيا، إلا أنه علــى رغم ذلك يضج بحياته المعلنـــة، حياة تتصل فــي أعمـــاقها بجذور الحياة الشاملة، وتحتفظ – إلــى ذلك – بقدر مـــن أسرار العالم المـــنطوى .
آذنت الشمس بالمغيب، والتف زقاق المدق فــي غلالة سمراء مـــن شفق زاد مـــن سمرتها عمقا أنه الغروب مـــنحصر بين جدران ثلاثة كالمصيدة الية باب علــى الصنادقية ، ثـــم يصعد صعودا فــي غير انتظام، تحف بجانب مـــنه دكان وقهـــوة وفرن، وتحف بالجانب الآخر دكان ووكالة ، ثـــم ينتهى سريعا – كمـــا انتهى مجده الغابر – ببيتين متلاصقين، يتكون كـــلاهمـــا مـــن طوابق ثلاثة.
سكنت حياة النهار، وسرى دبيب حياة المساء، همسة تجد هنا وهمهمة تجد هناك : يارب يا معين يارزاق يا كريم حسن الختام يارب . كـــل شيء بأمره. مساء الخير يا جمـــاعة .. تفضلوا جاء ظل السمر . اصح يا عم كامل وأغلق الدكان غير يا سنقر مـــاء الجوز . أطفئ الفرن يا جعدة . الفص كبس علــى قلبي. إذا كنا نذوق أهـــوال الظلام والغارات مـــنذ سنوات خمس فهذا مـــن شر أنهفسنا .
بيد أنه دكانين – دكان عم كامل بائع البسبوسة علــى يمين المدخل وصالون الحلو علــى يساره – يظلان مفتوحين إلــى مـــا بعــد الغروب بقليل . ومـــن العودةة عم كامل أنه يقتعد كرسيا علــى عتبة دكانه – أو حقه علــى الأصح – يغط فــي نومه والمذبة فــي حجره، لا يصحو إلا إذا ناداه زبون أو داعبه عباس الحلو الحلاق . هـــو كتلة بشرية جسيمة، ينحسر جلبابه عن ساقين كقربتين، وتتدلى خلفه عجيزة كالقبة، مركزها علــى الكرسى ومحيطها فــي االيةـــواء، ذو بطن كالبرميل، وصدر يكاد يتكور ثدياه، لا ترى الية رقبة، فبين الكتفــين وجه مستدير مـــنتفخ محتقن بالدم، أخفــي انتفاخه معالم قسمـــاته. فلا تكاد ترى فــي صفحته لا سمـــات ولا خطوط ولا أنهف ولا عينان، وقمة ذلك كـــالية رأس أصلع صغير لا يمتاز عن لون بشرته البيضاء المحمرة. لا يزال ياليةث ويشخر كأنه قطع شوطا عدوا، ولا ينتهى مـــن بيع قطعة بسبوسة حتى يغلبه النعاس . قالوا الية مرات ستموت بغتة، وسيقتلك الشحم الضاغط علــى قلبك، وراح يقول ذلك مع القائلين، ولكن مـــاذا يضيره الموت وحياته نوم متصل ؟!
أمـــا صالون الحلو فدكان صغير، يعد فــي الزقاق أنهيقا، ذو مرآة ومقعد غير أدوات الفن. وصارومـــانسية حبه شاب متوسط القامة ميال للبدانة، بيضاوى

الترجمة ، Translation 

Many things combine to show that Midaq Alley is one of the gems of times gone by and that it once shone forth like a flashing star in the history of Cairo. Which Cairo do I mean? That of the Fatimids, the Mamlukes, or the Sultans? Only God and the archaeologists know the answer to that, but in any case, the alley is certainly an ancient relic and a precious one. How could it be otherwise with its stone-paved surface leading directly to the historic Sanadiqiya Street. And then there is its cafe known as Kirsha’s. Its walls decorated with multicolored arabesques, now crumbling, give off strong odors from the medicines of olden times, smells which have now become the spices and folk cures of today and tomorrow…
Although Midaq Alley lives in almost complete isolation from all surrounding activity, it clamors with a distinctive and personal life of its own. Fundamentally and basically, its roots connect with life as a whole and yet, at the same time, it retains a number of the secrets of a world now past.
The sun began to set and Midaq Alley was veiled in the brown hues of the glow. The
darkness was all the greater because it was enclosed like a trap between three walls. It rose
unevenly from Sanadiqiya Street. One of its sides consisted of a shop, a cafe, and a bakery,
the other of another shop and an office. It ends abruptly, just as its ancient glory did, with
two adjoining houses, each of three stories.
The noises of daytime life had quieted now and those of the evening began to be heard, a whisper here and a whisper there: “Good evening, everyone.” “Come on in; it’s time for the evening get-together.” “Wake up, Uncle Kamil, and close your shop!” “Change the water in the hookah, Sanker!” “Put out the oven, Jaada!” “This hashish hurts my chest.”
“If we’ve been suffering terrors of blackouts and air raids for five years it’s only due to our own wickedness!”
Two shops, however, that of Uncle Kamil, the sweets seller, to the right of the alley entrance and the barbershop on the left, remain open until shortly after sunset. It is Uncle Kamil’s habit, even his right, to place a chair on the threshold of his shop and drop off to sleep with a fly whisk resting in his lap. He will remain there until customers either call out to him or Abbas, the barber, teasingly wakes him. He is a hulk of a man, his cloak revealing legs like tree trunks and his behind large and rounded like the dome of a mosque, its central portion resting on the chair and the remainder spilling over the sides. He has a belly like a barrel, great projecting breasts, and he seems scarcely to have any neck at all. Between his shoulders lies his rounded face, so puffed and blood-flecked that his breathing makes its furrows disappear. Consequently, scarcely a single line can be seen on the surface and he seems to have neither nose nor eyes. His head topping all this is small, bald, and no different in color from his pale yet florid skin. He is always panting and out of breath, as if he has just run a race, and he can scarcely complete the sale of a sweet before he is overcome by a desire for sleep. People are always telling him he will die suddenly because of the masses of fat pressing round his heart. He always agrees with them. But how will death harm him when his life is merely a prolonged sleep?
The barbershop, although small, is considered in the alley to be rather special. It has a mirror and an armchair, as well as the usual instruments of a barber. The barber is a man of medium height, pallid complexion, and slightly heavy build. His eyes project slightly and his wavy hair is yellowish, despite the brown color of his skin. He wears a suit and never goes without an apron; perhaps in imitation of more fashionable hairdressers.
These two individuals remain in their shops while the large company office next to the barber closes its doors and its employees go home. The last to leave is its owner, Salim Alwan. He struts off, dressed in his flowing robe and cloak, and goes to the carriage waiting for him at the street’s entrance. He climbs in sedately and fills the seat with his well-built person, his large Circassian mustaches standing out before him. The driver kicks the bell with his foot and it rings out loudly. The carriage, drawn by one horse, moves off toward Ghouriya on its way to Hilmiya.The two houses at the end of the street have closed their shutters against the cold, and lantern light shines through their cracks. Midaq Alley would be completely silent now were it not for Kirsha’s cafe; light streaming from its electric lamps, their wires covered with flies.The cafe is beginning to fill with customers. It is a square room, somewhat dilapidated. However, in spite of its dinginess, its walls are covered with arabesques.
The only things which suggest a past glory are its extreme age and a few couches placed here