Earth Weeps, Saturn Laughs

by Abdulaziz Al Farsi

  “The way you all act . . . don’t you think your categorizations are arbitrary?”

  “What categorizations? What’s permissible is clear, and what’s forbidden is clear.”

  “So you belong to the ‘permissible’ camp, and I belong to the ‘forbidden’ camp?”

  “You can review the plan to see which camp you belong to.”

  “Fine. I’m not going to change what I am, so leave me alone. And when Judgment Day comes, you can enter Paradise and close the door behind you so that I can’t come in.”

  His fingers were trembling, and his lips quivered. Rage was written all over his face. I knew discussion would do no good. Suddenly it occurred to me that he was cleverly leading me away from the purpose for which I had come. I said, “We’ll talk later about being religious. I’ve come to talk about your health situation. What you’re doing is a big mistake.”

  “That’s my business!” he bellowed. “Now get out of here!”

  Two days later we found him dead. Late one night he had a sudden bout of acute bleeding from the esophageal varices, and he was swimming in a pool of blood. He might have been unable to call on anyone to save him. He was looking heavenward with open eyes, and with empty bottles all over the place. The last glass had also been filled with his blood. Everything was dull and agonizing at the same time. Lots of books talk about the bleeding caused by esophageal varices, and they say it can take a person’s life in a matter of moments. But they’re incapable of describing the horror of the sight I saw. No doubt they’re completely incapable of describing those final moments in which my father saw himself vomiting all his blood at once, then giving up the ghost. They must also be incapable of describing the moment when he woke up to find the wheels of that train tearing him to pieces. My mother screamed once, then lost consciousness.

  She was unconscious for two hours. Zahir Bakhit cried for the first time, in a peculiar silence, like someone who has been defeated. He gasped tears. He breathed tears. He collapsed in tears. I felt a strange stupefaction enveloping the most contradictory emotions in life: I was sad over the fact that I was suddenly fatherless; angry because death had intervened in the conflict between me and my father and ruined everything between us; broken, because all the power we enjoy is nothing but nonsense that passes away in a moment; amazed that our last conversation hadn’t led to a final resolution. Anger had intervened between us, and we hadn’t agreed on a peaceful way to bring it to an end. I couldn’t believe I was living through this moment. Was I really experiencing my father’s death? Would I be referred to from now on as “the son of the late Bakhit Zahir Bakhit”? I may not have felt his fatherliness the way others did. Even so, his presence in life had given me hope that nice things might happen between us. Would I really go into his room the next day and not find him? What a disaster. Father, come back, please! I promise you we won’t have any more disagreements! I promise you we won’t have any more disagreements!

  I confess that the earthquake that toppled my religious convictions began on that difficult day when Bakhit Zahir Bakhit passed away. Imam Rashid refused to wash my father’s body. He also refused to pray over him, saying, “I won’t pray over someone who died a drunkard, and who had stopped performing his prayers. Ask his son, and he’ll tell you that what I’m saying is true. He’s religious, and he’s well aware of these rulings.”

  I was furious. It had been easy to issue this kind of fatwa against others. But when the same fatwa was issued against my father at the time of his death, it was excruciating. My grandfather tried to get Imam Rashid to change his mind, but he stuck to his guns: “Impossible. We can’t bury him in our cemetery, either. He’ll bring curses on us.”

  “Damn you. So you’re going to be cursed on account of my son? Have you forgotten about yourself and the rest of your breed of closet fags? Curses haunt you wherever you go!”

  Mihyan and Walad Sulaymi weren’t in town at the time, as they’d gone to visit relatives of theirs in the city. I was angry too, and didn’t know what to say or who I should talk to in those moments. My gut was seething with curses that needed to be rained on something I couldn’t quite identify. None of the friends who had enticed me into becoming religious and encouraged me in that direction offered any help. On the contrary, most of them kept quiet. One of them came up to me and said, as I recall, “You should accept the situation, and trust God for your reward in the hereafter. And in any case, we have to put God’s commands, the example of the Prophet, and the sayings of our pious ancestors before our own desires and preferences.”

  Then he reminded me of the story of Abraham, peace be upon him, and his pagan father! I didn’t argue with my friend, even though the comparison he’d made was as useless as his beard.

  I was amazed. Jam‘an, who hadn’t stopped drinking yet, and some friends of his came forward to help even though they had only known my father very superficially, and may never even have drunk with him. My grandfather and I washed my father’s corpse. At the time, neither of us cried, though our faces were stern. No doubt my grandfather was thinking as we worked about how he would punish everyone who had insulted him in this agonizing, appalling way. To me, my father seemed to be smiling sardonically and saying, “So, do you believe me now? They really are extremists!” We worked together to bury the body in an out-of-the-way corner of the graveyard. As my grandfather came into the graveyard, he was spewing threats: “I’m warning you. I’m ready to spill the blood of anybody who stands in my way, especially that fag who claims to be an imam!”

  No one dared come near us or try to stop us.

  Things were different when Walad Sulaymi and Mihyan got back that evening. They were clearly enraged at all the weak men of the village, and together they decided to throw Imam Rashid out of the village. But my grandfather pooh-poohed the idea, saying, “Throwing him out won’t do me any good. Leave him alone.”

  As a matter of fact, I learned later that my grandfather liked to enjoy his prey alone, without interference from anybody. As for me, I thought it best after this experience to rethink the religious approach I had been following. Friends had let me down, using against me the same arguments I had used to wage war on my father. I regretted this, although I was still convinced that he had gone to extremes. Little by little, people forgot everything, and my father regained a peculiar sort of sanctity, which, I confess, incenses me, really incenses me.

  I greeted my father in his peaceful repose. I told him a lot of what was happening. I described how bereaved my mother was. I saw him next to me, smiling in satisfaction over the decision I had made. He talked a lot, until at last sundown drew near and engulfed us.

  SUHAYL AL-JAMRA AL-KHABITHA

  No to Imports!

  I’ve made up my mind and won’t back down: I’m going to be the village leader.

  Should we go under because our leader has gotten senile, and because the person who’s taken the helm in his place is a reckless man? And now the leader is all enthused over a stranger whose origins we know nothing about. He’s even decided to build him a mud house. Does that make sense? We’ve even started importing religion from outside. What do we need with this Alam al-Din? Anything Zahir Bakhit gets involved with is bound to end up going wrong. For the last thirty years, not a single disaster has happened in our village but that Zahir Bakhit had a hand in it.

  Mihyan inherited the leadership from his father and his grandfather. But he’s just a man like me. He’s got two eyes, a nose, two hands, and two feet, just like me. He speaks, and so do I. In fact, I’m better than he is, since I have my family and children, and don’t complain of loneliness. Mihyan struggles with loneliness, which does harm to one’s mind. That black boy couldn’t be good company. After all, he’s the son of the jinns. And are jinns good company? We aren’t sheep to be led around by a shepherd like Mihyan. We’re human beings. We’ve got minds. By what right is he our leader? Is it because he inherited the leadership from his father? It isn’t fair. We should all be equal, and have the same
chance to be leader as he does.

  After Walad Sulaymi rejected our idea, I said to Sa‘id Dhab‘a, “We shouldn’t hesitate. It isn’t necessary to wait until we have a large number of the villagers on our side to carry out our idea. You and I are together on this, along with Walad Shamshum, Hamdan Tajrib, and Abu Ayda, and that’s enough to establish a new council. It’s simple. We’ll think up any old excuse, then open a small meetinghouse of our own, somewhere far away. Some people will oppose us, but what can the people of this village do? They aren’t going to set us on fire. On the first day they’ll reject the idea, on the second day they’ll be quiet, and on the third day they’ll get used to the fact that there’s a new council. In a month they’ll join it, and by the time two months have gone by, the new council will be indispensable. And that will be the end of Mihyan.”

  Sa‘id was fearful. He asked me, “What kind of excuse would convince them of the need to establish another council? They don’t want to change anything. You saw how Walad Sulaymi reacted to the idea of replacing Mihyan in spite of all the clear arguments we gave him. How will they agree to build another meetinghouse when we don’t have any powerful argument in our favor?”

  We stood waiting for Jam‘an after the prayer. We were sure he would help us, since he was bitter toward Zahir for bringing Alam al-Din to town, which had ruined his plan to become the imam. He came out of the mosque and hurried over to where we were.

  “Did I keep you waiting?”

  “No. Just come with us.”

  We took a few steps over to a dark spot behind the mosque. We did the best we could to make sure no one had noticed us. I said to Jam‘an, “We won’t keep you long. Do you want to be the mosque’s imam?”

  “Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Who wouldn’t want to draw near to God and advise other Muslims?”

  Even so, I wasn’t sure he really wanted this. It also gave me the creeps to think of him becoming our prayer leader. I might not be able to stand hearing him recite the Fatiha! He had some secret that I didn’t know about and that time would reveal, but this was no reason for us not to work together.

  I said to him, “We’ll help you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you deserve it. You’re a good man, and you’re regular in your prayers. You’ve got more right to be imam than that Bengali does.”

  “Is the Bengali going to be the imam?”

  “Yes, he is. Otherwise why would Zahir Bakhit have brought him here?”

  “My God! He’ll rob me of my dream. I’m afraid I’ll never make it to heaven. But how are you going to help me?”

  “Don’t worry. The important thing is for you to trust us, and to support us in what we’re going to do. We’ll do everything we can to make sure everybody gets his due.”

  Jam‘an didn’t say anything. He just kept staring at me.

  “Don’t worry,” Sa‘id Dhab‘a interjected, “We aren’t planning to do anything bad, and we won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to. Take your time thinking about it. We’ll be going now.”

  We departed, leaving him in the dark corner. We walked in the direction of the ravine. “Even Jam‘an is hesitant!” my friend grumbled.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll agree. And in any case, I’m going to carry on with what I’ve started.”

  The sky was beautiful that night. Life was perfectly tranquil. The village was always tranquil before Khalid and his craziness came back. We prayed the dawn prayer, then started our work. I went out to sea and watched the sun rise with water surrounding me on all sides. I brought the fish back. We cooked it. We prayed the afternoon prayer. We had lunch. We took naps. We prayed the mid-afternoon prayer. We sat with our children in the late afternoon. We prayed the sundown prayer. We ate supper, and sat with our children some more. We prayed the final evening prayer, then went to the meetinghouse. In spite of the conversations that took place over and over again in the council meetings and the show of autonomy people put on, you could tell how much authoritarianism there was. But we were fine. When the meeting was over, we went home again to spend the evening with our wives. Then we went to sleep. Is there anything more wonderful in life than this kind of tranquillity?

  Khalid has turned us upside down. What do we need with books if all they’re going to do is rob us of our peace of mind? What we’ve got is enough.

  “What do you intend to do?” my friend asked.

  “We’re going to start our own council.”

  “But on what pretext would we break with the community?”

  “On the pretext of trying it out!”

  “I thought your name was Suhayl. Has it become Hamdan now—Hamdan the Experimenter?”

  “Believe me: Hamdan Tajrib will solve the problem for us. We’ll convince him to present people with the idea of starting his own council as a new fad. Then, if people come to his meetings and see how nice they are, they’ll change their minds and come join us. And that way Mihyan will fall.”

  “But you know how Hamdan Tajrib thinks. Do you really think he could take over the village affairs?”

  “What? Did I say Hamdan was going to try out being a leader? We’d be in a pretty pickle if that happened! All I want is for him to try starting a new council. I’ll take charge of things in my own way, and Mihyan will fall out of favor with people.”

  “Wait up, you two!”

  Jam‘an’s voice came from a distance. We turned and saw him hurrying toward us. He came up to us, panting, and paused to catch his breath. Then he said, “All right. I agree. When will I take over my duties as the imam?”

  THE SATURNINE POET

  Games That Ever End

  Easy does it, you village of marvels, you daughter of hell.

  The silent ones who dream, how weary they are. The road has not been moved to compassion, nor have festivities drawn them in. How they grieve and toil. How often they depart with a wound in their deepest parts.

  I said to the poem, “Come nearer, so that I can take a sip from your mouth.”

  She laughed and gestured. “You come!” I floated through the air and caught up with her. She visited the moons and the planets, my heart panting after her all the while. Then, suddenly, she disappeared from view.

  Since the poem first thrust me into the clutches of the search—in the course of which I happened upon this village—I have become like a wanderer who is lured into a new game. He stands there pondering the players’ moves. Then, caught up in the excitement, he goes in to help the underdog a bit so as to make the game more amusing. He leaves the playing field for a while to observe the game following his adjustments. Suddenly he regrets his intervention, which wasn’t fair, and decides to correct his error. So he goes back into the game to help the other side. He gets out again, only to discover that he’s gotten the first team into trouble. He goes in for a third time, then a fourth. In this way, without meaning to, he gets involved, and ends up being hurt more than anyone else. He stops enjoying himself, and feels guilty instead. All he gets out of it is defeat. His victory, however resounding it may be, remains incomplete.

  I’ve embroiled myself in watching the game in this village, and I know I’m the biggest loser. I see how strangely events are moving. The constituent factors are joining in battle, and the result is a new world that looks just like yesterday.

  Mihyan woke up early in the morning and got ready for his new job. He planned out the best place, conjured up the required visualization of Alam al-Din’s house, and did the initial calculations. He instructed Khadim to gather the necessary materials, and by the time the sun had risen a bit higher, he was playing in the mud like a little boy. He added water to the earth’s gold, forming a blazing mixture. He dipped his fingers into the mixture, shaped, tore down, built, tore down again, built, collected colorful rocks of all sizes, dipped them into the mud, arranged them, tinkered with the golden mixture again, smiled to himself, and said, “I’ve missed you, my old love!” How his face glowed in the prese
nce of that mud. Mihyan smiled a lot.

  I came up to him from behind and whispered with the wind, “You’re a little boy again, Mihyan.”

  “This is a wish that isn’t repeated, dear, kindhearted wind. Who of us can win back his dreamy childhood whenever he wants to?”

  “You’re right. So shape away, then. Join the elements in wedlock, and create a new flavor for us.”

  I went dancing in the air again. I missed the poem: my own dreamy childhood. Why wouldn’t the words come to me now? Why did I put off spinning the scenes and the words together the way Mihyan played with the mud?

  Come, my poem, you elusive female, my beloved. Come to me. Come forward, I implore you, so that we can sing this scene together, so that we can say to Time, “Stop at this part, please. We’ll never grow up. We’ll never grow up!”

  Suhayl al-Jamra al-Khabitha passed by. He stood there pondering the tireless motion that was seizing Time with its teeth. The sun was still gentle and compassionate, despite the fact that she had received orders saying, “Blaze! Send down your scorching heat, O Mother of Fire, O Sister of Gold!” He laughed. Then he shouted in a loud voice, “You got old before your time, Mihyan. And now here you are having a relapse, and going back to your childhood!”

  Mihyan replied dispassionately, “We all belong to the earth, Suhayl. Let me play with it before it plays with my dead body.”

  Children were playing nearby. Some of them helped carry tools from place to place. Some of them stuck their hands in the mud, then raised them heavenward. Alam al-Din was smiling a lot. I came up and whispered, like a distant call from inside the mud, “What makes you so happy, stranger?”

  “This is the first real house I’ve ever had. Whenever nice things approach us, we wonder: Is what’s happening real? Am I seeing the dream come true now?”