by Alon Hilu
Tears threaten to overflow Aslan’s throat and eyes, for he is the interrogator and not the interrogee, the accuser and not the accused, the libeller and not the libelled, and he pricks once again the sweet, addictive, invigorating hatred inside him, and the waves of hot air carry him on high, and he enflames himself with words of wrath about his family, his parents, and he looks his father and his uncles in the eyes and condemns them for their evil deeds, and in his mind’s eye he envisions how they toiled over Tomaso’s body to siphon the blood, how they cut patches from his skin, how they allowed him to writhe in agony until his soul departed, and there was no mercy in them, just as the hearts of their ancestors sealed shut when Jesus was crucified, just as the hearts of the Jewish butchers were coarse with the suffering of beasts beheaded by their blades, and Aslan surges with strength and he denies all these accusations, for he did not carry out these acts attributed to him, such as the sucking of the barber’s tongue or the cramming of his organ into his mouth or the licking of his testicles, of which the mere thought repulses him, and he swears thus to them upon the lives of his mother and father.
Upon hearing these words his father rises and slaps his cheeks again and again, turning Aslan’s face red and blue, but these slaps do not cease, for Aslan continues to shout his innocence, and when Father tires the uncles approach and slap him as well, and some of them ball their hands into fists and beat his nose, and they kick his testicles and they land terrible blows upon his belly, and they shut his mouth to stifle his screams, and they demand he confess by raising the thumb of his right hand, but Aslan does not acquiesce, and he allows them to punch his head to and fro and smack him with planks of wood, and his only hope is for the dark screen to fall over his eyes and spare him this torture, and he hears his father cursing his own seed, from which this sorcery emerged.
And Aslan understands and recognises that this weak and diminutive worm – which wends its way among the creatures of the world, awakening loathing in them, some of whom trample it underfoot or slice off its tail – will, with the aid of the pincers concealed behind its mollusc legs, put a stop to these fat and ill-tempered men now threatening to extinguish it, and Aslan swears that this act being perpetrated upon him at this moment, in his smallness and helplessness, will be perpetrated upon them, and he resolves in his heart to find Mahmoud that very evening and to reveal to him the identities of the wicked murderers, the suckers of the blood of that good and holy monk.
6
MY HAPPY FRIEND, these nights you spend at my side, listening to my story and applying compresses to my feverish brow – these nights alleviate somewhat the shame of old age and the dismay of far off and powerful memories that tweak my brain hour after hour, and I cannot but offer a cornucopia of thanks to you for standing by this beleaguered, bedridden old man, and for never, ever being deterred, even from the contemptible, the uncontrollable leaks from my body, and if it pleases you I will continue to unravel for you all that which is true and frank.
I have already recounted to you, my happy friend, that I had made up my mind to carry out this deed, and so, after being returned to my bedroom – the former servants’ quarters – my cheeks still aflame from the painful slaps and my bones still in agony from the pummelling, I slip away from my father’s house, making my way quickly with a determined limp to the consulate, for the purpose of serving my father and uncles to them, for I have reached the decision that this is their due, and I fabricate many details in my mind, morbid ones, libellous and scheming, and they fan the flames of my wrath and blind my eyes with their radiant light.
Aslan encounters Mahmoud in the foyer of the consulate, his fox-eyes shining and smiling at him, and Aslan is choking with the desire to share the results of his investigations into the matter of the monk at the hands of his father and uncles, and he is careful to provide the name of each and every one of them, almuallem Rafael Farhi and Murad Farhi and Joseph Farhi and Meir Farhi, and he tells how the four of them had dragged Tomaso that stormy evening to a small and hideous room left unfinished, the floor of which is covered with dust and dirt, and how they bound him to a crucifix of wooden beams and how they tore his flesh asunder so as to remove the blood, and Mahmoud says, Slowly, Aslan; have you seen these things with your own eyes or merely heard them as rumours passed on by others? I inform him that these matters have been made known to me in a roundabout manner by virtue of the investigation I have conducted, for I myself was not among them when they committed the act, nor did I set eyes upon this, I merely awakened in the wee hours of that stormy night to the sounds of my father’s footsteps and the passing of his water into an open cesspit of the Black River, and thus rose from my bed to follow after him, observing my father surrounded by my uncles; and from somewhere among the clay-walled houses closing in on the neighbouring street I heard a short whistle, and the lot of them hastened in that direction, and Aslan caught sight of the barber motioning to them, and their lanterns blew out in the howling storm, and together the group of men proceeded to the home of Uncle Meir to carry out their evil intent.
Mahmoud continues to praise and extol me for having opened my eyes to the evil acts of these Jewish lords and for having girded myself with the courage to stand up to them, and while I float above the blackened, putrid branches of my father’s house like a delicate songbird, Mahmoud adds that the crime was not perpetrated by these four alone, but also by the barber, without whose eyewitness testimony at the slaughter itself the four could not be detained, so it was now necessary to extricate this truth from Suleiman alkhalaq, barber and witness, for the purpose of meteing out the punishment due the wicked gentlemen.
Before I can change my mind, Mahmoud grasps my hand and leads me to the cellar of the consulate down a winding staircase, and as we open a dark and heavy door Mahmoud clasps Aslan around his neck and embraces him. There, in the pit of the building, lies a living, breathing human carcass bound in chains and shackles, his body stripped bare, his buttocks and testicles exposed, and Aslan is shocked to discover that this is the barber, insensible from the frequent lashings, exhausted and famished and parched, and Mahmoud whispers into my ear that in spite of the starvation and torture, in spite of the hourly lashings of the whip, and in spite of the threats to tear off his limbs and chop up his body, they have been unable to extract from him the names of the murderers.
Suddenly a rancid, blood-filled gurgling issues from Suleiman’s throat and he awakens from the faint induced by the beatings and his eyes are blurry and his lips cracked, but he does not plead for anything but a drop of water to moisten his lips, and Aslan, incredulous, slips down into a long and eternal void, but his screams do not escape beyond his gaping mouth.
Just then the creature spies him, recognises his face, and begs him in a shattered voice to dribble a thin stream of water on to his lips from a clay jug standing nearby, otherwise he will hand his soul back to the creator of the world that very moment, and Aslan is nonplussed in the face of these whisperings, which pin the guilt on him, and he casts alarmed and perplexed glances at his new friend Mahmoud, the Good Interrogator, but the barber rattles his chains and calls Aslan by name and entreats him to perform this good deed and to provide him with a little water in the name of their religion, their people, and Aslan is about to grant the barber’s request when he notices the way Mahmoud is staring at him, his expression critical, measuring Aslan up as friend or foe.
My happy friend, at that very moment Aslan – young and rash – could have offered his own hairy back to the lashings of the kurbach for was not the destiny of his brother Suleiman Negrin, a member of the same tribe, his very own destiny? Instead I followed the radiant light that I imagined to be shining from Mahmoud Altali and I disregarded all obligations to my friend, my family, my people, and that is when I committed the injustice, perhaps my gravest crime in this drama being recorded by your industrious fingers, and if I requested several weeks ago that you listen and hearken to these deeds of mine min sint jidi – from days of yore – it was,
after all, for the purpose of confessing my evil deeds, so that even if the task weighs heavily upon your ears we cannot desist from the telling of this tale, nor may we allow this story to be forgotten unto the end of days, for this tale must be told and sealed and bound.
So it was, my happy friend, that I took up the kurbach, hanging from a metal hook in the wall, and it was fashioned from horsehair and still warm to the touch from the latest round of lashings, and I asked my former lover whether he would not hastily surrender the assassins’ names, and when alkhalaq remained steadfast in his silence I had no recourse but to brandish the whip in the air, which trilled in the tiny, narrow, stifling room, before I landed it squarely on Suleiman’s back, and the blow was so forceful and resolute that the barber did not even shriek, the jolt had stunned his limbs, and I administered blow after blow, as if threshing him like Gilead with instruments of iron, calling to him to give up the names of Tomaso’s murderers, and the barber shouted my name with a power that caused the walls of the dungeon to tremble, Aslan, Aslan, Aslan, and he raised his hand to plead with me to desist.
Then, at my request, I am permitted to relieve Suleiman of his torment, and I revive his soul with refreshing water and massage his shoulders and replace the patches of skin torn from his body, and I kiss him upon the lips as in those wonderful bygone days, and Suleiman’s body is weak and his eyes are wide open, the lashes thinned like the teeth of a comb, and I embrace him for a long moment and his arced brows once again flow together as they did on that evening of ancient memory at Bab Alfouqara, and Suleiman is fatigued from sobbing, and I instruct him to cease his foolish obstinacy and forthwith provide the names of the lords of the House of Farhi, and Suleiman responds to my outstretched hand and I summon Mahmoud to record the confession.
And Suleiman unravels the chain of events of which he had until that time, in his disgrace, denied any knowledge, and he begs the pardon of the faithful Christians for these terrible matters he kept concealed in his heart, and we gather round him to hear the story of four members of the Farhi family who dispatched him to coax the monk, who was making his way through Kharet Elyahud, to come with him, and he delivered the monk and his manservant for a meagre sum, two hundred piastres, perhaps three hundred, enough to provide for the needs of his household – his wife and their small son – and all this for the purpose of a ritual slaughter to extract blood for the Passover holiday, and the barber confirms Mahmoud’s questions with regards to other events of that evening, that the monk was murdered and his body dissected, that the purpose was without question a religious one, and Suleiman even responds to Mahmoud’s explicit request for the names of each of the men responsible for the crime: Meir, Murad, Joseph, Rafael, all of the Farhi clan, and he adds, upon the advice of the Good Interrogator, that the Khaham-Bashi, Rabbi Yaacov Antebi, was also among them, to instruct them in the meaning of the commandments and their implementation.
And lo, the barber’s confession, from the moment it is given, takes action as hastily as that of prunes on the intestines, and it is expressed to the palace of Sharif Pasha and from there, as a result, urgent orders of detention are issued and sent with runners and dispatchers, and gendarmes pound on doors and ropes are wound around sluggish veins and feet are dragged along on a clear night, and on that very same night, the eve of the Jews’ holy Sabbath, all are assembled in the qa’ah of the palace, Rafael Farhi and Murad Farhi and Meir Farhi and Joseph Farhi, and Rabbi Yaacov Antebi is summoned there as well, and between all these men stands the barber Suleiman alkhalaq, scarred and dishevelled, and Aslan and the Good Interrogator watch the gang of suspects from a narrow chink in the black curtains at the end of the room, behind which they hide so that the Jews will not know who is the spy among them.
The uncles stand whispering among themselves, as yet oblivious to the meaning of this absurd scene, and after an hour of being made to wait they thunder and complain to the aides of the Egyptian, Sharif Pasha, who has not yet made his appearance, about the panicked and sudden detention of important personages like themselves, known for their contribution to the commerce and welfare of the city of Damascus, and if they are to be interrogated, why so late on a Friday eve, no time provided even to change their robes, and why has the good rabbi been snatched from prayers in the Khush Elpasha Synagogue?
From the moment Sharif Pasha enters the room dressed in a black smoking jacket with gold pleats in the manner of the Europeans, but still in his slippers, made from golden cloth, he hastens to subdue the voices of protest and grumbling, and suggests that the Jews be seated and calm themselves, and he offers them cups of tea with baklava, and they drink greedily, consoling themselves with the momentary warmth of the heavily sweetened brew.
After their cups of tea have been sipped and the men’s cheeks have reddened a bit and tight, forced smiles have risen on their lips, Father appeals to Sharif Pasha, imploring him to release them to their homes, for they do not comprehend the purpose of their urgent summons to the palace, and they do not comprehend why they should be in this position, what such important Jewish personages could have to do with Father Tomaso and the barber, and almuallem Rafael Farhi draws near Sharif Pasha and kisses his cheeks and his fingers as if to appease him for treating these men of good intentions in such an indecorous manner.
Sharif Pasha does not answer him, instead informing them as to the reason for their urgent night-time detention by reading to them a brief summary of the confession made by the barber, now standing in the same room with them, about how a group of wealthy Jews had summoned him several days earlier, how he had delivered Father Tomaso to them for the purpose of taking his blood for the baking of unleavened bread for the Passover holiday, how the monk had met his bitter end, how they had siphoned the blood into a glass bottle in order to blend it in with the batter used to prepare the bread of affliction, and how this matter was in any event known and familiar to all before him.
Upon hearing these accusations Father and the uncles and the rabbi spread their arms in astonishment, crying La samakh Allah! Heaven forfend! And they ask the barber to look them in the eyes and swear to this matter in which he has charged them, for this is the first time they have encountered this man, who appears to be an ignoramus, one of the impoverished of the Jewish people, and it must be that he desires to take revenge upon them for their wealth, and they encircle Suleiman alkhalaq, nearly slapping his cheeks, asking how he dared to defame them thus, and they press upon him to withdraw his statement and tell which of them it was that summoned him and on what day and for what purpose, for each one of them could prove beyond all doubt that he had been in some other location on that fateful evening, one at a party in the Christian Quarter, another in the arms of his wife, and Suleiman alkhalaq cannot answer them, his silence long and ponderous, and his foes stand poised to celebrate their victory by returning to their soft feather beds.
Sharif Pasha instructs the barber to repeat before all assembled the accusations he had made less than an hour earlier under interrogation, but the barber’s gaze is one of terror, as if all at once he understands the enormity of his crime, and he stammers a response to Sharif Pasha that he does not recall who summoned him and he is neither assured nor lucid enough with regards to the events of that evening, and while he did in fact state that the monk had been murdered he had not seen this with his own eyes, he had only learned of the matter from others, and when Sharif Pasha concludes this round of pointed questioning the barber bursts into shattered tears, for he has no wish other than to be reunited with his wife and first-born son, now seated at a sombre Sabbath table bereft of husband and father, no meat or rice on their table, only lentil soup, a few beans, and a pair of silent oil candles flickering faintly.
Then Sharif Pasha motions to one of his adjutants to bring something hither, and a bright white pallor floods the barber’s face when the adjutant produces a horsehair whip of medium length, that kurbach with which he was tormented in the dungeon of the consulate, and before Suleiman is able to protest or cr
y out or flee for his life, his shirt is stripped from him and his back exposed, the skin already flayed from lashings, and the sound of the whip, like a pack of vipers, spikes the air, preceding by an eternity the sidelong, slashing blow as it lands on his flesh.
Immediately, the barber is ordered to stand and repeat his confession or the whip will be applied again, and the barber rises laboriously to his feet, teetering, and he is required to provide a simple answer to Sharif Pasha’s question: Were these pillars of the Jewish community of Damascus now present in the room the same men who slaughtered the monk? The barber mutters several incomprehensible syllables, the blood still snaking across his body, and the details of the incident mix riotously on his tongue.
When Sharif Pasha discerns that there is no purpose or benefit in pursuing the questioning of the barber he orders the second witness who confirmed the barber’s story to be called, and at once several servants approach and draw back the curtain behind which I am hiding, and I am revealed to my father and the uncles and the Khaham-Bashi, and when they perceive my small and haggard figure – that of a pampered child easily provoked to tears – they burst out in uninhibited laughter, their anger evaporated, for it is not possible that this overgrown baby, who does not come unto his wife, afraid even to remain alone in her presence, could stand up to them, and when their great, cackling laughter ceases they slap their thighs as if to signal that the time has come to depart, and they rise to their feet; but when they are prevented from opening the door in order to return to Kharet Elyahud they comprehend, all at once, from Aslan’s frozen stance and the silence of the governor of Damascus, that these accusations have, in fact, been levelled at them, and – deeply shocked and affronted – they return to their places and say to Aslan, Surely you jest, some Purim hoax this must be, and Sharif Pasha asks Aslan in a loud, clear voice whether the matters previously confessed by the barber are indeed true, that the members of the Farhi clan gathered before him joined together to put an end to the life of the monk, may he rest in peace, for the purpose of removing his blood as ordered by Rabbi Antebi for use in preparing the unleavened bread for the Passover holiday. All eyes turn to Aslan to learn his answer.