The ravine was placid that night. I lay down on the rocks with my hands under my head. The sky was beautiful, and lots of stars were out. I tried to count them. Hearing the sound of approaching footsteps, I lifted my head. When the man got closer, I recognized him as Walad Sulaymi.
He asked me, “Are you sure you’re a human being like the rest of us?”
I laughed. “I don’t think I’m an angel, Uncle!”
“Maybe you’re descended from the jinns,” he said.
I rose to my feet.
“What would make you think that, Uncle?”
“Why do you sleep at the bottom of the ravine when people are asleep in their houses?”
“What’s the worst thing that could happen?” I asked.
“The flood might come and sweep you away.”
“And who am I, Uncle? Am I not the flood’s son?”
In spite of himself, Walad Sulaymi took me into his arms.
“You’re right,” he said. He smiled, then left.
O heaven, will you bring Ayda to me now? I crave the sight of her. I want her beautiful black eyes and her long silky hair. I want her exquisite figure, her nose, and her lips sweet and succulent as grapes. You’ve grown up, Ayda, and your womanhood is complete! Do you see the madman in my eyes? You call me “King.” If I raise my eyebrows in surprise, you laugh, revealing your small, straight, pearly teeth. And you say, “Your color is regal, distinctive. I like it.”
Then your hand brushes my shoulder alluringly. Is your touch innocent? It shakes me to the core. It demolishes all my resistance. It removes the shackles. Shall I pass my hands over your shoulders?
Why were you looking down from your balcony at Khalid Bakhit before the council meeting? Your eyes looked sad. No one but I saw you fretfully chewing your fingernails. Were you worried about him? You shouldn’t worry about him. Worry about the tormented “king.” When you joke with me, look into my eyes. You’ll find a man here. That scared little boy whose embrace was so innocent has died. Khalid will set us all on fire. And he might set you on fire. So don’t waste your time worrying about him. Come close to me. Say, “I’ll come.”
And when you do, I’ll say, “O stars in the sky, are you bringing Ayda to me?”
Why do you keep yourself hidden in the distance? How can I make you mine? How can I make you mine?
The Illustrious Marketplace
“Good morning, Master Mihyan,” I said. I handed him the cup.
“Good morning, Khadim,” he replied.
His eyes were puffy, the way they always were on the day after a full moon. He returned the cup to me, so I filled it for the second round, then for the third, without saying a word.
As I put the dalla back in its place, I said, “Alam al-Din arrives today.”
In a rather pained voice, he said, “Your coffee has gotten more bitter. Are you doing that on purpose?”
“I apologize, Master. I didn’t mean to.”
“Do you think I’m the only one who feels it’s bitter?”
“I’m sorry, Master. I don’t think so. It must really be getting more bitter.”
“I’m not interrogating you now or putting you on trial. Please just tell me, and don’t be afraid: Am I the only one who thinks it’s bitter?”
“I don’t think so, Master. Uncle Zahir Bakhit also complained that it was bitter a couple of days ago.”
“Have you changed the way you prepare the coffee?”
“It’s the same way I’ve always done it.”
He nodded, saying, “So, then, the bitterness is coming from our throats. What’s happening in this time of yours leaves a bitterness in people’s throats. You can go to the market now.”
I took off for the market, which was still in the same place despite the modernization it had undergone. It was still located between the backs of the mud houses to the left and the palm trees to the right. In the center of the marketplace there was a smattering of shops, and vendors had spread out mats on which they displayed their merchandise. Some of the vendors lived in the village, and some had come from neighboring villages. Still others had come from the city to sell men’s clothing. There were women at the market selling and buying. The nicest thing here was the absence of commotion. No shouting of hawkers, and no wrangling of merchants. Everyone went about their business slowly and methodically, deliberating in silence, calmly scrutinizing the goods, then deciding whether or not to buy. Never once had a customer at this market returned a piece of merchandise to a vendor, and there was always a smile on everyone’s face. Khalid Bakhit dubbed the village market “the Illustrious Market.”
Everyone was there except Zahir Bakhit and my master Mihyan. Walad Sulaymi was in the fabric shop. Walad Shamshum had arranged the crates of tomatoes in front of him. Suhayl was displaying the fish he had caught. Khalid Bakhit opened his book and sat down on the bench where he read his books on the weekend. Imam Rashid, Ubayd, and Jam‘an were waiting near the entrance, while Hamdan Tajrib, Hamid Dahana, and Sa‘id Dhab‘a stretched out on a mat in the center of the market.
Khalid Bakhit closed his book and looked around. He cleared his throat. Then, in a stentorian voice, he said, “Since you’re all gathered here, I would like to inform you of the most remarkable thing the Saturnine poet has heard. The Saturnine poet told me—after hearing it from his father, who heard it from his grandfather, who heard it from—”
Sa‘id Dhab‘a cut him off. “Stop!” he said. “You’ve worn our ears out with your talk about the most remarkable things you’ve heard from that Saturnine poet of yours. Won’t you give us the chance to think in peace rather than barging in here with your voice and your fairy tales?”
Khalid Bakhit, who had stopped talking without closing his mouth, looked at Sa‘id and asked, “Have you ever heard me talk before about the most remarkable thing my Saturnine poet has heard?”
“Yes, I have. Last week, at this same time, you talked to us about it.”
“You’re imagining things. Last week I told you about the most remarkable thing I had heard from the Saturnine poet. This week I want to talk about the most remarkable thing the Saturnine poet himself has heard. They aren’t the same thing. You’ve got no concentration, and because of this I’m going to withdraw the title ‘the Illustrious Market’ from this place.”
He continued, “‘Those who frequent the Illustrious Market spend their time listening to homilies and wise sayings.’ That’s what the Saturnine poet said.”
“What sermons and what wise sayings?” demanded Hamid Dahana. “Do you call these fairy tales of yours ‘wise sayings’?”
“Don’t call them fairy tales just because you can’t understand them now. Don’t kill them with your biased point of view if your mind can’t comprehend them. You’ll understand them before you die. Don’t be in such a hurry.”
Some laughed. As for Hamid, he was angry, and his anger was visible to everyone. As he folded a piece of fabric in his shop, Walad Sulaymi intervened, saying, “Cut it out! Whatever they’re worth, we won’t lose anything by listening to them. At least it will be a way to pass the time while we wait. So go ahead, Khalid, tell us about the most remarkable thing the Saturnine poet has heard.”
At that moment my master Mihyan arrived. He crossed the marketplace to a spot near where I stood. Then he went in and sat down in Walad Sulaymi’s shop. Walad Sulaymi repeated his request.
Oh, if I only knew what went on in all these people’s minds! If someone had come along two days earlier and told them to stone Khalid, they would have done it without a moment’s hesitation. And now here they were, waiting for the story Khalid was about to tell as though they had never heard it before. Khalid’s stories only make us more confused. But we’ve gotten used to hearing him say incomprehensible things. Are all these things really there on Saturn, Khalid? How many stories has he told us about Saturn and its poet? And in the end we haven’t understood a thing. When he’s finished speaking, he asks us, “Did you understand?”
Some say
, “Yes. What you’re saying is beautiful, profound!” But when this happens, Khalid gets a sad look on his face, and he says, “People on Saturn can only comment on stories like these with silence.” Then he closes his book forlornly, and we don’t see him again until the Friday prayer.
We looked up in anticipation of what Khalid had to say. He closed his eyes and said, “I was told by the Saturnine poet, who was told by his father, who was told by his grandfather, who was told by the soil that so ardently embraced the feet of those who have passed away, that they had retreated into a state of weakness and passivity, content to be annihilated. There were three of them, and they had been stained with blood, having sacrificed themselves for the sake of the dream hidden away in bottles. As they journeyed they had sketched their existence in the sand. And they would say, ‘Will there really be life after this death? Will there really be manifest victory after all our defeats?’ And they were told, ‘God has vindicated and rescued Earth’s messengers.’ The three replied, ‘But we are on Saturn, the maze.’ They didn’t believe that God is One, and that He is the Lord of Saturn, the Lord of Earth, and the Lord of the Vast Universe. Their doubts emerged in succession from the ecstasies of contemplation. Someone asked them, ‘Can God be doubted?’ But they just stood there with earnest mien.”
“You see?” cried Hamid Dahana. “He’s blasphemed! He’s blasphemed! Why did they stand there with earnest mien, son of Bakhit? You must want to plant doubts in people’s minds about God just the way they do!”
Khalid made no reply. He remained silent. At that moment, two figures began gradually to appear. They kept approaching until they entered the marketplace. We recognized Zahir Bakhit’s gait, and we guessed that the other person was Alam al-Din.
Sa‘id Dhab‘a said, “Zahir Bakhit has arrived, and Alam al-Din is with him. I presume you don’t know anything about Bangladesh. Khalid doesn’t either. But I know everything about it.”
The two men continued to approach, and we could now see their faces clearly.
Here’s Bangladesh
“Bangladesh is a country located near France. Its people make their living on the oil and fish trade. Its climate is snowy all year round, so European ice-skating competitions are held there. The capital of Bangladesh is Dhaka, and Muslims make up one-sixth of its population.”
As Sa‘id Dhab‘a spoke, the others nodded their heads. Some of them believed what they were hearing, while others thought it preposterous. Khalid Bakhit’s eyes bugged out, from which I gathered that he didn’t believe what Sa‘id had said.
“Is it a member of NATO?” Khalid asked him.
“Yes, it’s a member of NATO,” replied Sa‘id with complete confidence. “It also belongs to NCM—the Non-Collapsing Movement. It joined it last century.”
I didn’t understand a word they’d said.
Zahir Bakhit was carrying a small suitcase containing Alam al-Din’s things. People gathered around the newcomer, a young man with green eyes, golden hair, and a light mustache. Of medium height, the size of his limbs and his neck was well proportioned to his ruddy body. He hadn’t sprouted a beard yet, and his teeth were small, with spaces of equal size between them that lent his face an air of affability that you could sense from the first time you saw him. Zahir told him the names of the men present. He seemed to have a powerful memory, since he managed to remember the names after hearing them only once.
Almost drooling, Imam Rashid asked, “How old are you?” Then he sighed like a heartsick lover.
“I’m twenty-two years old,” replied Alam al-Din with a smile.
He had no accent. It was as though he’d lived his entire life among the desert Arabs. The next question, the one we usually heard when Imam Rashid saw a handsome young man, was, “Are you married?”
When the answer was “No,” the imam’s eyes glistened with a delight that was lost on no one.
“You’re in luck,” said Walad Shamshum, “so rejoice, you with the green eyes!”
“Are you of Afghani ancestry?” Khalid asked Alam al-Din.
“Maybe. I’m not sure. I lost my parents when I was a newborn. The person who raised me didn’t tell me anything about where I came from. Whenever I asked him about it, he would get irritated and say, ‘I don’t know anything about your parents apart from the fact that they were alone. They became my neighbors two years before they died, and during that whole time I never saw any of their relatives.’”
This reply evoked an emotional response among the listeners, and I noticed that some of them had tears in their eyes.
Zahir announced, “This man has left his own community to serve the religion here. What amount of wealth could possibly replace someone’s homeland? Nothing but our goodwill and concern could help him make up for the loneliness he must feel. I hope you’ll treat him as though he were one of us, and let him share in your joys and your sorrows.”
Suhayl al-Jamra al-Khabitha seconded what Zahir had said, as did Dahana. My master Mihyan said, “Let’s agree now on certain secondary matters that concern Alam al-Din. Who will volunteer to buy him clothes on holidays and religious occasions?”
He didn’t have to wait long for a response. Walad Sulaymi volunteered for this job, promising to provide Alam al-Din with clothing on these occasions and whenever the need arose. Before my master Mihyan could say another word, most of those present had volunteered to feed him as well. Khalid suggested that this responsibility be shared by everyone. One household would provide food for one week, another household would provide it the following week, and so on. This idea met with everyone’s approval.
My master Mihyan said, “The first week will be on me!”
Abu Ayda, who was still showing the effects of the illness he’d recovered from, cried, “And the second week is mine!”
There was a hoarseness in his voice. Enervated by the fever, he had been without a voice the entire previous week. In fact, the people of the village had thought his end was near. However, he had come to receive Alam al-Din, and he appeared to have regained his health.
Zahir Bakhit said, “Alam al-Din, your food during the third week will come from my house.”
As for the last week of the first month, it would, as I had expected, be Imam Rashid’s responsibility. My master Mihyan said, “A month from now we’ll decide on the food arrangements for the second month.”
All that remained now was to resolve the last problem, namely, where Alam al-Din would live. In keeping with his usual practice of postponing the difficult issues till last, my master had put off dealing with this question.
He said, “We’ve decided on everything else, so all we have to do now is to agree on where Alam al-Din will live.”
Interrupting my master Mihyan, Imam Rashid cried, “At my house! At my house! He’ll stay at my house so that we can study Islamic law together.”
Walad Shamshum, who liked to provoke Imam Rashid with his wisecracks, said, “I remember the Islamic law lessons you used to give us when we were younger. Those were the days!”
Hamdan Tajrib said, “I think the two of you could study Islamic law in the mosque. And that would bring you a better reward.”
Walad Sulaymi voiced his agreement. “So,” he said, “let’s look for another house where he could stay. What does Mihyan think?”
My master agreed with this idea. “In that case,” he said, “we’ll ask Alam al-Din if he would have any objection to staying in a mud house.”
Still smiling, Alam al-Din assured us that it would be quite all right with him. He said, “I’m fine living anywhere. All the houses in the village, both the mud houses and the modern houses, are much better than my house in Bangladesh. They’re also better than the tents where I stayed here and there during the mission trip. All that matters to me is for this heart to be at rest. What’s the difference between one house and another on this earth if in the end we’re going to sleep in a room underground with worms as our next-door neighbors?”
Once again, his listeners were moved by
his words.
Mihyan said, “I’ll build you a mud house near the mosque. Until then, you’ll live with me in my house.”
Everyone lent their hearty support to this proposal. Mihyan’s eyes lit up with joy. It was the joy of returning to the soil.
Zahir Bakhit decided to take Alam al-Din to where he would be staying, accompanied by my master Mihyan and me. The time had come for the rites of departure. People began shaking hands with the stranger who had arrived in their midst, with everyone trying to touch the soft hands and get a good look at the green eyes.
We headed toward the house. I took the suitcase out of Zahir Bakhit’s hand. Despite the silence, joy was carrying me along. If Mihyan was happy, his boy Khadim was happy, too. Mihyan had managed to kill two birds with one stone by making this offer: “I’ll build you a mud house near the mosque. Until then, you’ll live with me in my house.” Only in this way would my master Mihyan be able to sound out the newly arrived stranger and figure out what Zahir was planning and, at the same time, have the chance to indulge in the pleasure of working with mud without anyone teasing or criticizing him. I read you, my master. I know the pain you feel when you pick up some mud and contemplate it, or when someone who has no appreciation of what it means to be in love with nature passes by and mocks you: “Hey, Mihyan! If you play in the mud, everybody in the village plays.” In your eyes I see the sorrow of those who have lost themselves. In the features of your face I glimpse the brokenness of a great man who has loved, and who’s been blamed and hurt by young children. Now you’ll go back to being a little boy just the way you’ve wanted to. You’ve found a way to play in the mud in full view of everyone, and without being criticized. I know it will take three months, not one, to build the house. You’ll take as long as you like playing with your beloved mud.
My master Mihyan and Zahir got busy introducing Alam al-Din to every house they came to along the way. Mihyan said, “This is Khalfan Adawa’s house. And this is Sa‘id Tajrib’s house.”
Earth Weeps, Saturn Laughs Page 8