Have I been deceiving myself? Ever since coming back to this village, I’ve occupied myself with all its goings-on, rediscovering the aspects I had missed. I’ve also rediscovered my soul, which first saw the light here. I’ve absorbed myself in reading, conversation, and work so as not to give myself a chance to think about what happened between us. I’ve tried to maintain a distance from you, a distance justified by my anger. However, the fact is that you never leave my spirit. The more time passes, the more my love for you grows and the more my anger dwindles, to the point where I’ve begun granting you the kind of wonderful sanctity that one bestows on someone he has lost forever. I long for you, and I can’t deny it. Whenever I read anything, have a conversation, or take part in an activity, my mind starts arranging the words I’ll use to relate the experience to you as though I were going to tell you about it when we met in the evening: “This morning I read something I liked. . . .” “Would you believe what the Saturnine said to me yesterday?” And I imagine you listening with rapt attention, your eyes overflowing with amazement and your lips smiling from time to time. How lovely it was when you listened to me! How I miss you. This entire world could never compensate me for your loss!
Ever since I left you my steps have been heading toward perdition. Ever since then sorrow has tilled my heart. I flee, only to find you in everything before me. I ask myself: “Why is Abir so sacrosanct to me? Why is it that every other face in the world disappears, and none but hers remains, filling me to the brim? Why is it that she’s the only one I think of in my moments of joy and sorrow?”
Ah, my dear memory! O homeland of mine, sown with eyes inside the spirit. O most beautiful of odes! Would that I were a poet who could adorn your braided tresses with rhyme, or plow language so as to sow it with your name, or spend his days wandering in search of the poem he longs to write, in search of his face. You are my face! I have no face but you. I’m coming back to you. After all, there’s no place to flee from your heart but back to your heart itself. I’m coming back with hundreds of stories filling my heart, just as my spirit is filled with fractures and bruises.
What should I recount to you? There are so many stories that a week of walking together down the city streets might not be enough for me to tell you everything. So be it. We have a long lifetime of walking ahead of us. So let’s join hands and start over again. Be mine alone, and I’ll be yours.
“I want to forget everything.” This is what I said to my mother at noon when I told her of my desire to go back to my job in the city. I said to her, “If I stay here I’ll go mad. Everything in this cursed village inspires madness.” She burst into bitter tears, then hung her head in silence. Wherever I go in the house, I feel depressed. I haven’t told you. My grandfather died, Abir. He died of a stab wound in his heart. Never had I felt that I was truly weak until I knew for certain that he was dead. Death destroyed my being when it took my grandfather in particular. That strong, invincible man—dead in the twinkling of an eye? It wasn’t until that day that I felt him to be wretched and helpless. His face was flushed dark blue. It pained me to see the marks left on his body by the autopsy the forensic physician had performed. Do you suppose he felt pain when he was dissected? When I saw him, I recalled a prediction my mother had made about the curse that awaited my grandfather. I may tell you about that if I can. But my mother was right: It is a curse. A curse. We buried him near my father’s grave. Would you believe it? The men told me that a cloud had guarded his bier from the time we brought it out of the house to the time we buried him. My heart had been so blinded by grief after the burial that all I noticed was the rain falling on us.
I said to my mother, “Come with me, then. Let’s get away from the curse of the village.” She refused, saying, “I don’t know anybody in the city. This is where I was raised, and I want to die here, among my brothers and sisters.”
“I can’t stay here,” I told her.
“I won’t keep you from leaving,” she said. “My heart is with you always. This isn’t the first time you’ve been absent from me. So go, but don’t stop visiting me.”
I told her about my decision: “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll visit you from time to time, though.” Then I headed for my room to get my things ready.
As I was organizing my papers, my eyes fell on some colored stationery in the desk drawer. I opened them, and discovered that they were letters I had written to you, but had never given you. My dream had been to write a big bunch of letters on colored stationery with different dates, then give them to you on your birthday. Then we parted before I’d been able to fulfill my dream. I mustered the courage to read them. And would you believe it? I marveled at them. I thought: Am I really the same person who penned these words? Love transforms us into creatures that bring beauty into being. The language of love is the most exquisite language on earth. It overcomes the power of Time, and whenever we read it, we find it being renewed, bearing many meanings. The letters excited me, and sparked a desire to write to you again. Do you remember my saying, “I was made to write to you alone”? How you used to love my letters, and how happy they used to make you! You used to wait for them with bated breath. As for me, I would feel a rush of elation when I saw you delighting in them the way a little girl delights in a piece of candy. As I write to you, I know I’ll be reaching you before this letter does. But I’ll enjoy listening to your lovely voice when you read my words to me. You invented this custom for me, and I loved it. When you read the letters, I would feel as though it was someone else who had written them. I would focus, asking you to stop and reread certain passages of a letter as though I were hearing it for the first time. I would joke with you, saying: “Isn’t it narcissistic of me to want to hear my letters in your voice?” And you would say, “No. Your letters are beautiful and enjoyable. And there’s nothing wrong with your enjoying beautiful things.” I’m coming, Abir. I’m coming to get rid of all the filth that’s clung to me since I came here.
I shall leave you now. I have a final task left to accomplish in this village. There is a girl waiting for me to inform her of my decision. Have I told you about Ayda, Abir? It’s a long story, and it will take long hours of our conversations on foot. She’s waiting for me now. Remind me when we meet to tell you about her. I know the fire that will erupt in your heart now. I like you to be jealous. How many times did you say, “I’ll guard you jealously from all the women in the world”? But don’t worry. I swear to you, she’s my sister. Believe me. I only discovered it recently. This is another wound that hasn’t healed yet, and that needs your fingers’ tender touch.
Have I told you about the Saturnine poet? He’s been gone for a long time. But that’s all right. We’ll look for him together. His is a long story, too. Didn’t I tell you there were a lot of stories? I’m coming to you, sweetheart.
Till we meet again . . .
I love you.
Khalid
SUHAYL AL-JAMRA AL-KHABITHA
The Dead Can Sometimes Do Harm
Curses upon you, Zahir, in life and in death! I can just see dour, burly angels tormenting you on and on in the grave. From the grave, without any reckoning, you’ll enter the Fire on the Day of Resurrection. God must have sent that knife against you from the sky because you had mocked His religion. In fact, you deserve worse than that. If I went and opened our grave, I would find that God had turned you into a swine, then caused the earth to open up and swallow you. You were a swine when you were alive, and you’re a swine now that you’re dead. Curses upon you. You deceived the poor Muslims. You brought them an infidel swine like yourself to play the role of an imam’s assistant. Even though he was an infidel, you let him share in our food and lodging, and come into our mosque to lead us in prayer. I nearly went berserk when I found out the truth. Never in my life could I have imagined that something this vile had happened to us.
Imam Faraj came unexpectedly to our village and told us that he had been feeling ill, which was why he hadn’t been able to attend Zahir’s funeral and wa
ke. We informed him that Khalid had left the village and that we didn’t know when he would be back. He got ready to leave again, but we pressed him to wait with us until lunchtime, and he agreed.
When it was time for the noon prayer, we all headed for the mosque. We sat down and waited for the prayer’s commencement to be announced. We had Shaykh Faraj go to the front and he led us in prayer. After the prayer, when everyone was at the door of the mosque, Shaykh Faraj asked us, “Who is that young man with the blue eyes?” We gasped.
I said, “That’s Alam al-Din, the one you sent to us.”
“Alam al-Din? Which Alam al-Din? Alam al-Din the Bengali died months ago after being hit by a car in the city. Who told you this was Alam al-Din?”
Aghast, we said, “Zahir did.”
The men who were present, including Mihyan, headed over to the person we had thought was Alam al-Din and bound him.
“Who are you?” they asked him.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, bewildered. “I’m Alam al-Din.”
“You’re lying,” I said. “You’re not Alam al-Din. Who are you, then?”
“I’m Alam al-Din the Bengali,” he insisted. “Don’t lie,” said Shaykh Faraj. “I know Alam al-Din well, and he died months ago.”
He fell silent. Mihyan slapped him several times, asking him, “Who are you?”
“Ask Zahir,” he replied.
I screamed in his face, “Do you want us to ask the dead?”
He gave no reply. Shaykh Faraj said, “I’m afraid he might not even be a Muslim. He might have been just claiming to be a Muslim, and leading you in prayer anyway.”
Hamdan Tajrib said, “It’s simple. If he’s uncircumcised, he must be an infidel!”
We looked at each other. Shaykh Faraj said, “I think there’s something to be said for that reasoning.”
“All right, then,” I said to Hamdan. “Examine him and tell us what you found!”
“What!” he cried. “Do you want me to expose the man’s private parts? Do it yourselves! You’re the ones in charge here.”
“You’re going to try it out yourself,” I commanded him. “Come on, now. Examine the man.”
The men tightened their grip on the person we had thought to be Alam al-Din, while Hamdan Tajrib did his best to get a look at the man’s private parts. Then he shouted, “He’s an infidel! He’s uncircumcised! Infidel! Uncircumcised!”
The men fell upon the bound man with blows. Everyone joined in the beating until his blood flowed. They kept on beating him from all directions, with him screaming the entire time. Finally Shaykh Faraj said, “Stop. That’s enough. Don’t kill the man. We want to know the truth from him. Keep him tied up until he confesses and tells us all the details. Then we’ll decide what punishment comes next, and it will be even more severe.”
We tied him to the middle post of our meetinghouse, and gave him nothing to eat from noon until nightfall. In the meantime, violent arguments broke out among us. I told them, “Zahir knew all about this man, and he covered up for him.”
I was opposed by Mihyan, who said, “You have no right to say that about a dead man who can’t defend himself. Besides, for all you know, the man who’s tied to the post might have deceived Zahir, and led him to believe mistakenly that he was Alam al-Din.”
Walad Shamshum shouted, “Before this stranger came to the village, with my own ears I heard Zahir say he had met with Shaykh Faraj, and that Shaykh Faraj had told him he was going to send us Alam al-Din. So it was his lie. Did Zahir really meet with you, and did you tell him this, Shaykh Faraj?”
Shaykh Faraj replied, “He did meet with me, and before Alam al-Din died I told Zahir that I might send Alam al-Din to help you. However, as I’ve told you, Alam al-Din died, and I didn’t meet with Zahir after that.”
“When was that?” I asked him.
“I don’t remember exactly,” he said. “Maybe four or five months ago.”
“Maybe it was only three months,” interjected Walad Sulaymi. “Maybe Zahir had nothing to do with this man’s lies.”
“So how did this man learn of an idea that was going through Shaykh Faraj’s mind, and that he told no one but Zahir about? Zahir must have had something to do with it.”
“Damn you all!” retorted Walad Sulaymi. “Do you really think Zahir would have brought an infidel to lead people in prayer?”
Shaykh Faraj took leave of us shortly before sundown. By that time we had consulted with him about what legal ruling applied to this strange man, who refused to talk at all.
Shaykh Faraj said, “This is a thorny issue that calls for careful thought and consultation. I’ve never heard of such a case before in my entire life: an uncircumcised infidel deceiving a Muslim community and even leading them in prayer. I’ll have to ask jurists for a legal decision on the matter.”
“The ruling is obvious,” declared Sa‘id Dhab‘a. “He should be killed.”
We looked at him in consternation. After all, how could we kill him? And what would we tell the municipal authorities?
“Listen, everybody,” said Abu Ayda. “Don’t be in a hurry to judge the man. Wait till he starts talking again. The beating you gave him was excruciating, and wore him out. I think the man came to love Islam after living among you, but couldn’t tell you. So he decided to keep quiet about the matter.”
“In that case, Mr. Mufti,” I said scornfully, “what would the verdict be?”
“We circumcise him,” he said, “and we have a circumcision party for him. He announces his conversion to Islam, and we get a reward on his account. What do you say?”
“Fine,” I said. “Go buy a razor, then come and circumcise him yourself. Are you really that stupid?”
We didn’t reach any conclusion or decision, and the strange man didn’t speak. There was lots of talk at that night’s council meeting about what might have led this infidel to do what he had done. Every man had his own theory. However, I’m sure Zahir was the real culprit. He wanted to insult us by doing this. He was so blinded by his bitterness and hatred that he offended against God’s religion itself. Then he got what was coming to him. Curses on you, Zahir. Curses on you. This village found no respite during your lifetime, and it has found no respite since you died.
After the council meeting was over we left the strange man tied to the post and turned out the lights. Before we came out, I saw Jam‘an spit in the strange man’s face. He said to him, “You bastard. How many times did you lead the congregation in prayer before I had a chance even though you were an uncircumcised infidel? Damn you!”
We were confident that no one would dare help the man and untie him, especially considering the fact that he had insulted us and offended against our religion in our own land. Who would be crazy enough to sympathize with him? So we left him unguarded. However, we were mistaken. In fact, we found that our unthinking confidence in the entire village population had been misplaced.
The next morning we found that someone had released the man and let him escape. When we looked to see how the ropes had been cut, we noticed that the person had used a well-sharpened knife, which meant that the strange man hadn’t escaped on his own. Rather, he had received help from someone in the village. Curses on them all, those bastards. Curses on them!
KHADIM WALAD AL-SAYL
A Predawn Tryst
Just as Ayda had instructed me, I stood shortly before dawn at the back door to her house with a red candle in my hand. The door opened, and I went in. She brought me into a room that was filled with a sweet fragrance and sat me down on a soft mattress. She gazed at me with her beautiful smile.
“So you’ve come, O king!” she said.
If I had gone to sleep and dreamed of what was happening to me now, I wouldn’t have believed it. How much more difficult it was to believe, then, when it was a reality before me: Ayda and I together, in the same room, with everyone else asleep. I hadn’t believed my ears after the final evening prayer when she called to me as I was passing near her house. I
hesitated for a moment, but, after making sure the coast was clear, it wasn’t long before I mustered the courage to come up to the door. She handed me a red candle and said, “I need you, O my king. Before dawn, be at the back door to my house, and light the candle so that I can open the door for you.”
I didn’t sleep a wink the entire night. I kept thinking about her. I asked myself: “What’s happened to her now? Is it because she can’t see Khalid any more, and she couldn’t find anybody else but me?”
I tried to keep myself from going. But an hour before the time she had set, I slipped out of the house with the candle and a box of matches in my hand.
She laid her hand on my shoulder, and I felt a tingle go through me. “Hey,” she said. “What are you thinking about?”
Looking at her lovely mouth, I said, “I can’t believe I’m here with you now.”
“Had you been dreaming of this?” she asked.
“I’d be lying if I denied it. I’ve never dreamed of any girl but you.”
“But you never tried to communicate that to me.”
“I would remember the slap your mother planted on my cheek, then change my mind. Do you remember?”
She laughed, revealing her pretty teeth. “Believe me,” she said, “I’ve never forgotten that scene.”
“I believe you,” I said. Then I added, “I used to think it had just been child’s play. I never expected it to grow with me, and for you to become my dream. Did the same thing happen to you?”
“I don’t think so,” she said without hesitation. “I used to remember the same scene and wonder how we thought that way. When my mother raised her hand, I felt the sting of the blow on my face. To this day I still feel the same sting whenever I think back on that slap. It hurts a lot.”
Ayda exuded a perfume that stirred up the rebel in me. With every moment that passed, I could feel the euphoria grow. It was as though I could hear the roar of my father, the flood, passing through and sweeping away the ashes that had accumulated on my spirit, causing me to rejoice and strive for reunion. But what kind of reunion was it that Ayda was about to bestow upon me? And why?
Earth Weeps, Saturn Laughs Page 22