Earth Weeps, Saturn Laughs

by Abdulaziz Al Farsi

  “Then all at once the thing loses all its beauty,” I said. “It becomes ordinary, as though it had never been a dream.”

  “Everything except the dream house. I’ve lived without a homeland and without a sense of belonging. Every land I go to spits me out into another one. I’ve never owned a house. So, you beautiful mud, I’m experiencing the birth of my homeland. And a homeland is never ordinary.”

  I went running through open space again, leaving a big grin on Alam al-Din’s face. Can we really see the birth of our homelands? Can we really be born before they are? What is a homeland? What is belonging?

  Sa‘id Dhab‘a approached from the other end of the work area. He went over to Alam al-Din and said, “The house will be ready soon. What do you say we find a wife for you?”

  “That would be nice. You can do that on one condition.”

  “My God! Have you learned the language of conditions, too? What’s your condition?”

  “That you pay the dowry. In our country they say that your men are better-looking than women, and that your dowries are high.”

  “The solution is simple, then. We’ll find for a man for you.”

  “Lord have mercy!”

  “Never mind. Imam Rashid will teach you the rules of the game. Just wait.”

  Mihyan’s voice came from a distance, calling Sa‘id Dhab‘a. “If you aren’t going to help us, at least don’t slow us down!”

  “I’ll help you,” he replied, “but tomorrow.”

  He left annoyed, followed by looks of bewilderment. Then everyone went back to their work.

  Khalid Bakhit looked terribly sad. As he fiddled with the mud, banged rocks against each other, and moved from place to place, his face didn’t conceal his emotions one bit. I said to him, “It would be nice if we could write a poem together about the sorrow the mud feels when we leave it, the way it weeps over us, and the way we tread it underfoot as though we didn’t recognize it.”

  “Saturnine,” he replied, “there are so many sad things, we’d need an army of poets to write about them all, and thousands of divans.”

  He has beautiful eyes, this being that vacillates between will and impotence. He speaks, and his voice comes out as a lovely, unforgettable poem. Is it necessary for us to write in order to be poets? How many eyes in this world are more beautiful than any poem? How many smiles? How many loves condense poetry into a kiss and an embrace? How many things there are that words can’t convey!

  I said, “I’d like to see your childhood toys. Didn’t you used to play?”

  “I did. But I’ve forgotten everything, as though I didn’t have a childhood.”

  “Sometimes we feel as though we never experienced our childhoods. But God always gives us another chance, in the right circumstances, to experience the moments of our childhood before we die. Then memory returns to us and we recover everything, my friend.”

  “Then I’ll wait for those moments.”

  I suddenly withdrew from the conversation. I pondered the sun, the trees, the minaret, and the mud houses. Couldn’t Alam al-Din have lived in one of the old houses? Why hadn’t anybody objected to the idea of building him a new mud house? Because they were colluding with Mihyan to find a way for him to relive his childhood.

  Delicate beads of sweat glided down Khadim’s cheeks. His well-proportioned body with its carefully drawn lines was heartening. He gazed thoughtfully at the mud like a father gazing at his first child. Suddenly his eyes welled up with tears. They began to flow and mingle with his sweat. (None of them notices, Khadim, so go ahead and cry. Relieve this spirit that pants after the impossible.) His eyes red now, he collected himself and went back to picking up rocks and arranging them in neat rows. He spattered mud on their faces and smiled. Then he got up and went over to Khalid.

  “I have a question. It’s said that we come from this stuff. Isn’t that right, Khalid?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “But its color is a lot different from mine. Where did I get all this extra?”

  Khalid laughed, and gave Khadim a spontaneous hug. They stood there for a while without saying a word. Then each of them withdrew to where he had been before. Everyone continued working in a pleasant silence.

  From a house whose distant balconies overlooked the wide-open space, Ayda stood gazing out at all the workers. Her crimson lips glistened, and a lovely mole rested easily on the left side of her fair, dazzling neck. Her golden locks came down as far as the small of her back. Her figure was moderately full. She was wearing loose, blue garments that exuded an irresistible perfume. She drew me to her.

  She was scanning the scene with the greatest of care, searching for Khalid. The moment she caught a glimpse of him, she sighed, intoxicating me with the sweetness of her breath.

  “When will you turn around, you madman?” she whispered. “You’ve worn me out.”

  She went inside and brought out a long-legged chair, then sat pondering Khalid’s movements. He would alternately fiddle with the mud, turn rocks over, pause to reflect, and go back to work like the others. He didn’t look up in the direction of the distant balcony. However, she didn’t take her eyes off him for a second.

  I once said to him, “Somebody in this village is in love with you, and would go into raptures over a mere glance from you.”

  He said, “Abir’s wound is still fresh, and I’m not ready for any other experience.”

  Ayda began singing in a dewy voice. She combined a number of songs in a startling way that would have held anyone’s attention. Suddenly, she glimpsed Zahir Bakhit walking across the road that separated the two rows of houses. He fixed his gaze in her direction until she fled inside and closed the balcony door behind her.

  Zahir Bakhit came up to them. He looked around the place. He pondered their faces. He saw where Khalid was. He greeted Mihyan with his eyebrows, and added a smile. Then he went up to Alam al-Din and said warmly, “What do you think of the atmosphere around here?”

  “It’s very nice. I feel very happy.”

  “Have you begun working with Imam Rashid?”

  “I’ve sat with him a couple of times, once after the final evening prayer, and once after the dawn prayer. He’s promised to keep me abreast of everything, and he advised me to meditate.”

  “All right, then. Do you need anything from me?”

  “Everything is just fine.”

  Zahir Bakhit left for home with a smile on his face; a smile I seemed to be seeing for the first time. Hands went back to what they had been doing, while Ayda reopened the balcony door and sat back down on her chair.

  Khadim stopped building and went inside. He went into the storeroom and brought out a huge quantity of dates. He placed them on a large plate, lit the fire, and began preparing coffee. He washed the cups, and brought out first the coffee, then the dates. Spreading the mat in the shade of a large tree, he called his master and everyone working with him. They all lay down in the shade and gathered around the dates. They began eating, and the hum of conversations grew louder. The cups made the rounds, beginning from the right. As Khadim poured, the cups were passed from hand to hand until they rested in front of lips thirsty for bitterness. The coffee, hot though it was, was gulped down hurriedly, and the cups returned to Khadim.

  They kept building until noon. Alam al-Din excused himself shortly before noon to go perform his new function. Ayda noticed him passing between the houses, and eyed him keenly. She laughed in surprise until he went into the mosque. Then she shifted her glance back to Khalid and resumed her former meditation. Jam‘an came panting from a distance. He entered the mosque. A few minutes later, his voice could be heard sounding the call to prayer, so everyone stopped working. One by one the men of the village began arriving at the mosque for prayer, leaving the streets empty.

  A Thousand and One Ruses

  It was the first council meeting Alam al-Din had ever attended in this village, and everyone was present. The sky was clear and the stars were twinkling. The fire in the stove blazed,
heating the coffee, and the young men were busily engaged in side conversations. Winking at each other, they pointed at this face and that, stifling their laughter. Imam Rashid sat next to Alam al-Din. Walad Sulaymi sat across from Zahir Bakhit. Khalid chose the end of the meetinghouse and left an empty place beside him.

  “The Saturnine poet will be attending,” he told them. “This is his seat.”

  Suhayl al-Jamra al-Khabitha, Sa‘id Dhab‘a, and Hamdan Tajrib chose the center of the meetinghouse. Hamid Dahana sat facing Mihyan. Walad Shamshum sat next to Jam‘an, and on the opposite side sat Ubayd al-Dik.

  Walad Sulaymi said to Zahir in a low voice, “What do you say we listen to Imam Rashid’s rocket sermons?”

  “Fine,” Zahir replied. “It’s been some time since we heard his stories.”

  Walad Sulaymi cleared his throat audibly, then said, “Imam, a man from the village of Mahasin came to my shop today to buy fabric. I saw him smoking right in front of me. So I said to him, ‘Smoking is forbidden.’ ‘No, it’s just undesirable,’ he replied. What do you say, Imam?”

  Imam Rashid drew himself up. All the council members went silent. The side conversations came to a halt as people listened for what Imam Rashid would say.

  “This is a topic of debate among us scholars. But the best-attested view in my opinion is that smoking is simply undesirable.”

  Khalid lowered his head. Zahir stifled a laugh.

  Meanwhile, Walad Sulaymi kept on with his questions. “You know that some of us apply a certain school of jurisprudence to our daily affairs, and consider it more valid than other people’s opinions. So tell us clearly: Which of the scholars have said that smoking is forbidden, and which of them have said that it’s only undesirable? And what arguments do you rely on, venerable imam of ours?”

  “Enough of this, Walad Sulaymi. What you’re doing will just confuse the other people here. What good will it do them if I say, ‘So-and-so says this, and So-and-so says that’? They’ll say, ‘What does it all boil down to?’ What it all boils down to is what I’m telling you, namely, that smoking is just undesirable.”

  “All right. I have another question: If I’ve performed my ablutions, then inadvertently smoke a cigarette, will my ablutions be invalidated? Do I have to perform them all over again?”

  “In my view, you don’t need to do them again in this case. All you have to do is rinse your mouth out three times. You don’t need to do anything else. And God knows best.”

  Zahir Bakhit interjected: “But Imam Rashid, we hear these fat-was from you, but we don’t hear them anywhere else.”

  With a start, Imam Rashid replied, “And what fault is it of mine if you listen to other people who don’t understand anything? Alam al-Din is here. Ask him, and he’ll tell you the same thing.”

  All eyes were now on Alam al-Din, who broke into a profuse sweat. He bowed his head, saying, “He who says ‘I don’t know’ has issued a fatwa.”

  Zahir intervened, saying, “Alam al-Din needs more time before he can adjust his fatwas to this village. Please excuse him.”

  Laughter went up from various quarters. Muhammad ibn Sa‘id, who had taken a fancy to the game, said, “Never mind, Imam Rashid. Don’t pay any attention to them. But since the floor is open to fatwas and inquiries, I have a question, too. I’ve heard people talk about ‘Satan’s ropes.’ Tell us: What are Satan’s ropes like?”

  Imam Rashid smiled cautiously. Then he sat up straight, saying, “Yes—these are the types of questions that can be helpful to you. And yes, Satan does have ropes. He wraps them around his hands. Then, whenever people who worship God come near, he ropes them in and drags them away from the angels and mercy.”

  “My God!” Sa‘id Dhab‘a broke in. “And the angels don’t lift a finger? How can somebody who worships God be dragged away while they stand there not saying a word?”

  Imam Rashid sighed. “Be patient, Sa‘id, and let me finish. I said that Satan pulls people away from mercy with his ropes. But the strong person can break these ropes.”

  “How, Imam?” cried Walad Shamshum. “Please tell us, so that we can correct ourselves!”

  “Calm down, please,” said Imam Rashid. “I’ll tell you a lovely story that’s been passed down in the traditions, and that has a moral. A certain pious man once passed Satan, who had his thick ropes in his hand. ‘What’s that in your hand, Satan?’ the man asked. ‘These are my ropes,’ Satan replied. ‘I’m getting them ready so that I can make you fall.’ ‘Make me fall? We’ll see about that!’ Then they went their separate ways. Satan went to a beautiful prostitute and said to her, ‘If you cause this pious man to fall and commit immorality, I’ll give you enough gold to live happily the rest of your life.’ So she agreed. The beautiful prostitute then dressed herself up as an old woman and placed a clay jar filled with water on her head. After the evening prayer, she went and stood in the road the pious man traveled. When he approached, she began moaning and complaining about how she had lost her husband and her son, and how heartless people were. The pious man stopped and offered to carry the jar of water for her, and she accepted. She then proceeded to walk in front of him, showering him with prayers for God’s blessings. When they reached the house, she opened the door, saying, ‘Come in, son.’ He put the jar down next to the stove, and no sooner had he stepped inside than she stepped in after him and shut the door.”

  “And then she said, ‘Hayta lak!’” cried Sa‘id Dhab‘a.

  “No,” said Imam Rashid with a sigh. “Be patient, and don’t interrupt me. You’ll hear what she said.”

  Sa‘id apologized.

  Imam Rashid continued, “She came in after him and closed the door. Then she quickly took off her disguise, and when the pious man turned around, he found her in the most beautiful attire and fully adorned. ‘Come closer,’ she said. But he turned his face away from her. She ran after him, and he fled. Then she shouted, ‘Listen. My husband is a vicious man, and he’ll be coming back tomorrow. If you don’t sleep with me now, I’ll scream and create such a scandal that when he hears about it, he’ll kill you.’ The pious man burst into tears. A bit later he said, ‘All right. I’ll do as you wish. However, I feel hungry, and I’m craving some broth.’ Delighted, the prostitute set about making some soup, with the keys to the house on her bosom, and the pious man sitting at the other end of the room. Then she set out the food. ‘Here you are,’ she said gleefully. The pious man began eating the bread she had served and dipping it in the broth, making a point of getting it all over his sleeves in the most uncouth manner possible. In this way he succeeded in disgusting the prostitute so thoroughly that she started to vomit.

  ‘Get out of my house!’ she shrieked. ‘I don’t want you here!’ The pious man then left unharmed. The next day he saw Satan looking defeated and dejected on the side of the road. ‘What’s wrong, Satan?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ Satan replied. ‘You’ve broken all my ropes, that’s what’s wrong! I’ll never come near you again.’ And that’s the end of the story.”

  Imam Rashid sighed again, and broke into a smile. As he looked at the other smiling faces around him, Khalid’s voice came from the end of the meetinghouse. “Imam, have you ever read A Thousand and One Nights?”

  “A Thousand and One Nights? No, I never have. What about it?”

  “Nothing. But you’d make a good Scheherazade, Imam.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Never mind, Imam Rashid,” Sa‘id Dhab‘a broke in. “Khalid says a lot of things we don’t understand. But tell me: What happened to the prostitute after that? Didn’t she get any gold for her efforts?”

  Imam Rashid swallowed. “I don’t know,” he said. “That isn’t mentioned in the story.”

  “It isn’t important,” chimed in Walad Shamshum. “The important thing is: How did Satan fix his ropes? Or did he buy new ones? Who makes Satan’s ropes, by the way?”

  “And what happened to the angels?” Suhayl al-Jamra al-Khabitha wanted to know.

&nbs
p; By this time Imam Rashid was sweating like a horse, and I think he regretted having told them the story. Zahir Bakhit was laughing out loud and holding Walad Sulaymi’s hand. Mihyan looked glum and pensive. He sat there staring at his fingers, then looked again at the smiling faces. Khadim was passing out cups of coffee to those present. The coffee smelled of wakefulness, and the cardamom scented people’s breaths. Life was very peaceful here, and gentle. Perhaps it was more like a love poem whispered by a lover melting with longing into the ear of his beloved who, although she desires him, feigns aloofness in hopes of hearing words even more beautiful and pristine.

  Those in attendance withdrew gradually from the meetinghouse and went to spend the remainder of the evening with their wives. Walad Sulaymi and Zahir Bakhit walked along like a couple of teenage buddies, holding hands and swinging their arms.

  Zahir said, “This is the fifth time I’ve heard Imam Rashid tell the same story.”

  “I was hearing it for the third time, but with a lot of changes.”

  “Do you think Time will give us a chance to hear it again?”

  “Damn you, Zahir! We’re still young! A man doesn’t turn gray until he decides he’s ready.”

  “You’re a lot younger than I am. As for me, I know I’ve used up all my cards in life, so reserve some cloth from your shop for my shroud.”

  “I’ll do no such thing. I hate people who try to beat death to the punch by waiting for it.”

  They walked away. As the darkness engulfed them, their conversation continued, ebbing and flowing as they went. They didn’t let go of each other’s hands. They laughed in hushed tones. Then they disappeared. I hadn’t seen Zahir in such a mellow mood since I came to the village. I left them and headed toward Mihyan’s house.

  Alam al-Din came into the room with Khadim, and they sat down facing each other.

  “It was a tiring day. Is that what you had expected?”

  “My trips are always tiring. In any case, what I heard at the meetinghouse made me forget the day’s hard work. And your coffee woke up everything in me.”