Earth Weeps, Saturn Laughs

by Abdulaziz Al Farsi

  I must be dreaming. Or this dawn must be abnormal. I found Jam‘an in the mosque, and there was nothing wrong with him. Standing beside him, I performed the two voluntary rak‘as that one is encouraged to perform when first arriving at the mosque, and the two voluntary rak‘as of the dawn prayer. As soon as I’d finished, I turned to him and said, “Why were you late for the call to prayer this morning?”

  “I wasn’t late.”

  “What happened, then? Why didn’t you take part in the call to prayer?”

  “It seems you haven’t heard. Imam Rashid got sick yesterday, and they took him to the city for treatment.”

  “What was wrong with him?”

  “They say it was nausea, repeated vomiting, and abdominal pain.”

  “I see. This is the first time I’ve heard about it. But what does your part in the call to prayer have to do with Imam Rashid’s being sick? Are you the one who took him to the city?”

  “No. I was busy looking for someone who could lead us in prayer today.”

  I must be dreaming, I thought. What’s happening this morning? Jam‘an was talking and acting as though he were Mihyan. And even more strangely, Mihyan and Alam al-Din were sitting at the back of the gathering, while Sa‘id Dhab‘a, Hamdan Tajrib, Walad Shamshum, Suhayl, Abu Ayda, Hamid Dahana, Alawiyy ibn Khammas, and Rashshud ibn Qasim had all occupied the first row. Lord have mercy! Walad Shamshum has started coming to the mosque often these days, and Sa‘id Dhab‘a has started changing the prayer he attends every day! But I don’t see Zahir Bakhit. Were all these people gathered here because Imam Rashid was sick, or because they’d seen Khalid coming out of Abu Ayda’s house and had brought the irrefutable evidence they’d been looking for to support their claim that Khalid would bring nothing but corruption to the village? As though to confirm their claims, Khalid himself wasn’t there.

  Suhayl al-Jamra al-Khabitha cleared his throat and said, “The sun is going to come up while we sit here. Aren’t you going to start the prayer?”

  “All right,” Sa‘id Dhab‘a replied, “let the right person stand up and lead us in prayer.”

  No one stood up. Some people in the back row were looking at Alam al-Din, who had bowed his head as though he wanted people to look away from him.

  Suhayl said, “It’s a pity there hasn’t been enough time to test Alam al-Din’s skills before now. But I don’t think it would be fair to press him into service as imam when he isn’t ready for it. He hasn’t even been in the village a whole week yet. It’s all right, Alam al-Din. Don’t worry.”

  Alam al-Din showed no interest in anything Suhayl said. As for Mihyan, it was clear from the look on his face that he was irritated at the way Suhayl was taking charge of the mosque’s affairs.

  Walad Shamshum, who had only come to the mosque once in the entire previous year, looked at Suhayl and said, “We’ll choose one of the two muezzins. Who sounded the call to prayer today?”

  “Ubayd al-Dik,” they said.

  “All right,” said Walad Shamshum. “It’s clear, then. Imam Rashid taught us that if somebody sounds the call to prayer, it’s better for him not to lead the people in prayer if there’s a suitable alternative.”

  “And is Jam‘an the suitable alternative?” I blurted out. I smelled a rat this morning. I couldn’t believe that Jam‘an had waived his part in the dawn call to prayer because he was busy arranging a substitute for Imam Rashid. He was planning to lead us in prayer himself, and that’s why he let Ubayd al-Dik sound the call to prayer by himself.

  “And what’s wrong with Jam‘an?” objected Sa‘id Dhab‘a. “He’s an upright man who’s atoned for his bad deeds, and he never leaves the mosque. Or do you want to hold him accountable for past sins that he’s repented of now?”

  “Damn you all,” I said. “It’s enough for us to hear Jam‘an’s call to prayer. It wakes up the people in the neighboring villages, and it nearly wakes up the dead. So think what would happen if he led us in a prayer that’s recited out loud. The congregation would run away after half a rak‘a for fear of losing their hearing. God only knows if the angels themselves stay in the mosque after hearing Jam‘an!”

  Walad Shamshum said, “All these people want Jam‘an. So why are you against him?”

  I said, “If they agree to his being their imam, then let them all say, ‘We want Jam‘an!’ Come on now.”

  Suhayl, Abu Ayda, Sa‘id Dhab‘a, Walad Shamshum, and Hamid Tajrib said, “We want Jam‘an.” But no one else said a thing.

  “You see?” I said to them. “Not all silence is consent.”

  I looked over at Mihyan as if to encourage him to voice his opinion. He glanced around the mosque as though he were looking for the right person to lead the prayer.

  Exasperated, Suhayl said, “If you don’t pray as a group now, I’m going to pray by myself and leave. What I’m saying is clear.”

  “I second you on that,” chimed in Abu Ayda. “I’m going to do the same thing.”

  And Hamdan Tajrib backed them.

  “There’ll be no need for that. Ubayd al-Dik will lead us in prayer.”

  We looked around. It was the voice of Zahir, who had come in with water dripping off his hands and face.

  “That’s not allowed,” said Sa‘id Dhab‘a. “Imam Rashid said so himself.”

  Zahir Bakhit didn’t turn to look at him. But he replied, saying, “Imam Rashid applies these fatwas when he’s here with us. But we’ve never heard these fatwas anywhere else. And now, what’s right is that Ubayd al-Dik is the best-qualified person to serve as our imam. Announce that the prayer has begun, Ubayd, and lead us in it.”

  Ubayd came forward, turned on the microphone, and announced that the prayer was about to begin. Zahir followed him, and I joined the two of them. We were joined by most of the congregation, with the exception of those who had wanted Jam‘an to lead the prayer. Suhayl al-Jamra al-Khabitha clapped his hand over his nose as if to stop a nosebleed and left the mosque. He was obviously angry. The remainder of those who had refused to do so earlier joined those who had stood up, and Ubayd al-Dik began to lead us in prayer. Meanwhile, Khalid had yet to arrive.

  History Is a Failed Thief

  After the prayer I walked with Zahir Bakhit along the road to the ravine. I was preoccupied with the peculiar events this dawn had brought our way. I wasn’t surprised, of course, to find such things happening in a village that’s bound for hell. The nice thing was the pleasant, gentle breeze that had accompanied the first signs of morning. I was hoping it wouldn’t get any stronger, since if it did, it would be hard for me to display my fabrics outside the shop. Zahir’s features indicated that he, too, had something on his mind. We approached the ravine without having said a single word.

  I decided to start the conversation.

  “I suspect they’re up to no good.”

  “Who do you mean?”

  “Dhab‘a, Shamshum, Suhayl, Abu Ayda, Jam‘an, and Tajrib.”

  “Let them do whatever they like. They’ll get what’s coming to them.” His tone was stern and angry. He must know of their attempts to take over the village leadership, I thought. To this day I haven’t figured out where he gets all the village news!

  I told him, “After the Fatiha they asked me to look into the matter of replacing Mihyan as the village leader. Jam‘an wasn’t with them. What surprised me was the fact that they proposed me as an alternative to Mihyan. Have they really been treated so unjustly, and have things gone downhill so badly, that they’re prepared to carry out this plan to replace Mihyan with anybody else? I have a sneaking suspicion they’re playing to get something bigger than what they claim to be. But as long as it’s all the same in the end, why don’t they make their aim public? What they’re doing breaks with village custom, and it’s going to spark a war for sure. Why hide behind bogus aims if the upshot is the same in either case, namely that war’s going to break out?”

  He gestured to me to sit down at the edge of the ravine. The breeze there was more pleasant, laden wi
th the fragrance of trees. The dim light was gradually banishing the night.

  Zahir said, “Even if they are planning to do what you say they are, I don’t think Imam Rashid’s absence this morning and Jam‘an’s wanting to take over as imam were things they’d planned in advance. It just happened by chance, and they tried to take advantage of the coincidence for their own benefit.”

  “I don’t agree with you, Zahir. You know what a glutton Imam Rashid is. So don’t rule out the possibility that what happened to him was on account of some food these people served him as a way of getting him away from the mosque. If there weren’t some preconceived plan involved, neither Walad Shamshum nor Sa‘id Dhab‘a would have shown up this morning, since Walad Shamshum never prays communal prayers, and Sa‘id Dhab‘a, as you know, only prays once a day. His time to pray in the mosque today was supposed to be noon, not dawn. They chose a time when they knew Alam al-Din wouldn’t be able to do anything, since we haven’t tested him out as an imam yet.”

  Zahir was shaking his head in disagreement. The moment I finished, he commented without hesitation, “If they had planned this out as you say they did, they would have presented a closed case, and they wouldn’t have given anybody a chance to reject Jam‘an as imam. They may want Jam‘an to be imam, but they aren’t stupid enough to arrange for him to be a temporary substitute who just leads one prayer. They’re planning to make him a permanent substitute for Imam Rashid so that they can get rid of Alam al-Din. They just happened to have heard that Rashid was sick, so they came to test the waters and find out what the people of the village would think if Jam‘an became imam some day—and it’s going to happen soon, I suspect. That way, they can determine how quickly they’ll be able to carry out the rest of their plan. They didn’t really want to make Jam‘an the imam. They just wanted to try it out. That’s why they didn’t come prepared with enough arguments to seal their case. The clearest evidence of this is the fact that their suggestion to make Jam‘an the imam fell through the minute I put my foot down and announced that al-Dik would lead the prayer.”

  I thought to myself: If Zahir Bakhit is aware of all their plans and understands them so well, why doesn’t he do something? I don’t think he wants to be leader himself. The thought has occasionally crossed my mind that Zahir is letting these men get started on their asinine plan so that, just when they’re about to achieve their aim and Mihyan is forced to step down as leader, he can step in and take control of things himself. But this thought doesn’t last long. Zahir is no enemy of Mihyan. He isn’t even one of his critics. Besides, Zahir has an authority that imposes itself on the village. Consequently, he does whatever he wants, and no one dares to touch a hair on his head. He isn’t the type of person who’s seduced by titles and the like. I know Zahir. He doesn’t care what people say, and he doesn’t glorify the things they do. He knows very well how powerful he is, and he has complete confidence in himself. I was carried away by these thoughts. However, Zahir didn’t interrupt my silence, and when I glanced over at him, I found him looking at me and smiling.

  The birds began chirping in the ravine, announcing the beginning of their journey, and the morning began to break clearly. The mosque incident had made me forget about Khalid and his coming out of Abu Ayda’s house. Does Zahir also know what’s happening between Khalid and Ayda? I wondered. Will he think he’s in control of the situation the way he thought he was in control of Bakhit Zahir once upon a time? I wasn’t used to hiding from Zahir anything that was on my mind, and what had happened in connection with Khalid had really disturbed me. It really is a small world. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have allowed me to see what I saw this morning.

  Zahir said, “You don’t seem well today. Your mind is really preoccupied. I don’t think even Mihyan—who’s the one under threat—is as worried as you are!”

  Emboldened to confide in him, I said, “Since you seem to know everything that’s going on in the village, you generally know what I want to say before I say it. But what I want is an explanation for it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean what’s going on between Khalid and Ayda.”

  Sparks flew from his eyes, and his features changed completely. His voice turned angry. He drew up closer to me and said, “Exactly what are you talking about?”

  “Calm down,” I said. Then I related to him everything I had seen. His face flushed with rage, he pressed his fingers together. Then, without a word, he left me and headed in the direction of the houses. I was certain now that he’d known nothing about this relationship. However, I didn’t regret having informed him. If Suhayl had been the one to see Khalid coming out of Abu Ayda’s house, it would have turned into a huge issue that would have done nobody any good.

  Zahir plowed ahead, his form shrinking with every step until he disappeared from view. However, my insides were ablaze with the details of his person, and his unrepeatable story. Never in my life had I encountered a man stronger than he was, nor anyone more stubborn. The details of his life, some of which my father had related to me and some of which I had witnessed myself, went passing through my mind’s eye. I was amazed at his determination to stay the course with the same perseverance, without paying the slightest attention to calumnies, and without pausing at obstacles. He kept on going, in silence, never wanting to surrender.

  My father told me that Zahir had married five women from his village, one after another. Every time he married, hardly two or three months would go by before his wife suddenly died. After this, everyone in the village took care not to marry any of their daughters to him for fear that they would meet the same fate. They wondered what his secret was. Did he kill the women himself? Like any man, Zahir dreamed of having a son to carry on his name. So he went to a man by the name of Ghuwayfari, who interpreted dreams, made talismans, and was known for his expertise in both astrology and physiognomy. When he saw Zahir, he told him, “I had expected you to come after the third wife who died in your house. But that’s all right. At least you’ve come after the fifth rather than after the seventh.”

  Taken aback by what the man had said, Zahir asked him, “And is every woman I marry going to die?”

  Ghuwayfari replied, “You’ve been afflicted on account of the prayers of a man you once mocked. You may recall that, ten years ago, you mocked a black man who had come from another village to buy some cloth. You ridiculed him in front of everyone. The man hadn’t offended you or provoked you in any way. You came and took the fabric out of his hands. Then, with a loud laugh, you said, ‘What do you want with these colors, you slave? The sun must have overheated your brain and made you lose your senses. Here, you’ll show up better in this.’ Then you handed him a piece of white fabric. In the process you made everyone laugh at him. You were conceited, and you took pride in your good looks, your color, and your family lineage. The man left the market with his head bowed in shame, and he never came back to the village. Do you know that from that day on, this man prayed continuously to God to take vengeance on you, and to make you drink from the same cup he had? As a result, God has decreed that no free woman you marry will bear you any children.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?” Zahir asked.

  Ghuwayfari replied, “Mix your lineage with that of the slaves. Marry one of them, and God will give you a son.”

  Zahir started with rage. He didn’t believe him. He accused the man of being crazy. To marry a slave, for whatever reason, would be a disgrace. He left and went to a distant village where no one knew anything about him, and asked for the hand of a poor man’s daughter. He gave them a lot of money and showered the girl with gold. They gave her to him in marriage, and on their wedding night, the people decked the girl out in the finest array. They dressed her in all the gold Zahir had brought her. It covered her neck, the top of her head, and her chest. They also dressed her in lots of rings, bracelets, and anklets. But before she was to be escorted to the groom, the sky clouded over. There was lightning and thunder. Those who tell the story say it was a
bizarre scene, since the lightning was striking near people’s heads. Suddenly, a lightning bolt struck the girl’s gold, causing it to burst into flames and consume her. She died instantly.

  A month after this incident, Zahir went back to Ghuwayfari, certain now that what he had told him was true.

  “Isn’t there any way to atone for my guilt?” he asked.

  “I’ve already told you what it is: Mix your lineage with theirs.”

  So Zahir went out and searched in the slaves’ villages until he found a young woman with a wheat-colored complexion, straight hair, a long nose, and beautiful lips. Zahir’s parents were against the marriage, and advised him not to go through with it. But Zahir wanted a son, no matter what he had to do to get one. His father said, “If I were you, I’d never marry again, and I wouldn’t want to have any children.”

  Zahir replied, “You only say that because you’ve never experienced what it’s like to be without children. The girl is beautiful, and her features are no different from ours. As time goes by people will forget the story, and the fact that her skin is dark will be less and less apparent down the generations.”

  As for his mother, she said, “Blood will tell, son.”

  Zahir proceeded with the marriage in spite of his parent’s disapproval. They didn’t give him their blessing. As for the young woman, she bore him Bakhit, whose features were delicate with the exception of his flat nose. Zahir went back to Ghuwayfari and said, “I’ve atoned for my sin by marrying a slave woman. That was my punishment. But why does the punishment have to affect my son?”