Death of a Monk

by Alon Hilu

  Aslan knows the only escape from this grief and is well aware of its urgency, and he kisses the nape of his sobbing lover’s neck and promises to pen a full confession to the act perpetrated upon the person of the monk Tomaso in which he will admit to having taken part in the deed about which he will, at last, reveal every detail, but Umm-Jihan requests that he desist from these oaths, that he should not confess for her sake to matters in which he bears no guilt, nor bring upon himself unnecessary danger, but Aslan quashes her words with a smile and a wave, prepared to undertake any action required to help her, and he tells her there is nothing protective or false about his confession, that in fact it is pure and true, for he was in the presence of his uncles and father when they murdered the life-loving monk, and it was only his wish to honour his father and his mother that prevented Aslan from making this final admission of his guilt until now, this confession that is essential to condemning the assassins, and a letter of this nature will be enough, a few lines in his own hand which they will write in haste, negligently, without forethought, and which will bring about the desired conviction of his enemies, and in exchange she will most likely be granted clemency, and Umm-Jihan is grateful for his promise and she hops up and down exuberantly in the low-ceilinged cell and bestows embraces and kisses upon him, and they return to their lovemaking, and Aslan takes up arousing her orifices once again, inflaming her passion for him and bringing them to the act of becoming one.

  His lover asks that he use utmost precaution, for there are those who carry out this act roughly and rashly and bring terrible pain to his body, and Aslan swears he will treat him with delicacy and love, and he rolls his lover on to his stomach to rest comfortably and stimulates him by rubbing gently, preparing him, until Aslan feels the great heat that has gripped his body and he knows the gates have been breached and the paths cleared and the way opened, and still he is gentle, making his way inward with caution, and he kisses Mahmoud’s ear lobes and helps him to relax, consoling him, and he helps his lover overcome the small, desired pains of their coupling, for they are giving birth together to their act of love with a new and faster rhythm, and they are as a rider on a wild horse, a cruel Bedouin warrior leading an army of bare-chested mercenaries to rout his enemies from my patch of desert, until I stain my glowing path with drops of my love, and only a few seconds more are needed for my lover to pour forth her treasures as well.

  The very next day, when one of the guards entered my cell, I asked him for an inkwell and a sheet of paper and I wrote my ard khall, my request for clemency, and I placed this letter in the hands of a courier for immediate delivery to Sharif Pasha, and all the while that ancient song was singing in my heart.

  My happy friend, I place now in your trustworthy hands, which tremble at this august occasion, the original copy of that infamous ard khall, preserved among my possessions for many long years in spite of my endless wanderings from place to place, for it is fit and becoming to append this missive to our expanding work, but know, my happy friend, what young Aslan did not, and that is that written words, imprinted with ink on paper, are more resilient and more terrible than those of a wagging tongue, which are heard and then forgotten, for even after all those involved have passed away, and after our epic tale has been resolved, and after the storm and the terror of it all have ceased to exist in the minds of men, the written words persist in clinging to the page, and they serve as an eternal memorial to all that was evil and foolish. Here then, my happy, beloved, friend, are the words I committed to paper:

  To His Eminence Sharif Pasha

  From Aslan, son of Rafael Farhi (almuallem)

  Lord Governor Sharif Pasha, by this letter I present you with my confession in the matter of the murder of Father Tomaso, requiescat in pace, in exchange for my being granted clemency and being protected from any edict or sentence issued by any court of law, though as for God’s court I will pray each and every morning until my dying day that He have mercy on me from on high, for the cup of my guilt hath runneth over.

  As I have already testified before you, on the fourth day of the first week of the month of Adar the First in the year five thousand, six hundred, according to the reckoning of the Jews, my father and my uncles and the Khaham-Bashi gathered in a room of the home of Meir Farhi, to which the barber Suleiman Negrin had brought Father Tomaso; now, however, I must add to my testimony, revealing that which I have heretofore kept secret, matters I have observed with my own eyes.

  I, too, was among those gathered to ensnare Father Tomaso; under orders of my father I accompanied him and my uncles to the home of Meir Farhi to carry out the terrible act, and once assembled in this unfinished room I watched as my father unsheathed a sharp and shiny carving knife, the mere touch of whose thin blade would slice a finger into rivers of blood, and he assigned me the task of holding the monk’s right leg and pinning it down firmly on the plank, for they were planning to draw the blade over his jugular vein, to slaughter him for the purpose of extracting his blood, and the Khaham-Bashi produced a glass and copper gathering jar for the purpose of saving the monk’s crimson blood. To my frightened questions I received the response that this was essential for the baking of the unleavened bread for the Passover holiday.

  At once I asked to be allowed to leave there for I was sore afraid to watch this act of murder, but my father forbade me absolutely to depart from the room, and thus I was forced to hold the right leg while my friend the barber held the left leg, Uncles Joseph and Meir procured his arms while Uncle Murad held fast to his shoulders. My father made slits in the wretched monk’s neck and the Khaham-Bashi stood alongside him, collecting the blood, and Tomaso’s life seeped away, and he tried to cry out in protest but could not overcome these men pinning him fast, I, my Lord Governor, among them.

  While Father was thrusting the blade deeper into his neck and the monk was still clinging to life, a sharp, deafening scream escaped his mouth, and Father hastened to cut the thread of his life with one final plunge of the knife, and the monk’s eyes spun in their sockets, turning inside out and swelling until his groaning ceased and only his blood continued to flow copiously from the exposed veins into the glass and copper vessel that the Khaham-Bashi held.

  Upon observing the river of blood and the swollen eyeballs I was visited at long last by a much-awaited redemption and I fell into an unconscious darkness. When I awakened I found myself ensconced in my parents’ bed, my dear mother standing over me with smelling salts to revive my soul, and she rubbed my fingertips to remove the bloodstains from them.

  From that day forth I was ordered never to speak about or even mention this event and I possess no knowledge of what became of the monk’s body or what was done with his blood, only that from the Khaham-Bashi I learned that this act is carried out for the purpose of baking unleavened bread as is required from generation to generation on the eve of the Passover holiday.

  My Honourable Lord Governor Sharif Pasha, I have penned this statement on my own accord and from what I have witnessed with my own eyes in the matter of Father Tomaso, requiescat in pace, and I have not refrained from including any detail in my account and ask only to receive His Lord’s clemency, that I will not be maltreated in any manner nor that any sorrow should befall me, for I am greatly afraid of my uncles and father and of the vengeance of my fellow Jews.

  Signed,

  Aslan, son of Rafael Farhi

  PART THREE

  MOUSSA

  1

  MY HAPPY FRIEND, as an empty glass bottle left to stand for years in some dark corner away from the eyes of all beings, barren and despised, into which all at once a sweet and holy wine de bonne qualité is poured, so was I now filled with Mahmoud’s sudden love, flooding and frothing, and I wished nothing other than to forget the wicked missive I had penned and all the other creeping, crawling creatures slithering in the dark box of my soul, and immerse myself instead in the holy, red, syrupy liquid coursing through me and raising a smile of joy to my lips.

  Mahmoud and Mahm
oud and Mahmoud: this was the only name I would pronounce and express from morn until evening, and when the young attendant came, the day after I made my confession, to release me from my cell on the order of Sharif Pasha, I did not even tarry to exult at the joy of freedom, for a single passion engulfed me, that is, the powerful desire to meet my lover again, to inhale the scent of his body, to taste his kisses and live out my days to the very last of them with him.

  The imprisoned Jews, the Khaham-Bashi at their head, watch as Aslan gains his freedom, and they hurl curses at him, and prayers for his demise, but as for me, my happy friend, I turn my back on my father and uncles and all those acquaintances of mine incarcerated there, requesting only that the young attendant escort me not to my parents’ home nor to the gate of Kharet Elyahud, nor to the Quarter itself, but to my sweet lover’s chambers, for I am keen to smother him with embraces and stroke the hair of his head and dribble words of love and affection into his ears and kiss his mouth for all to see, and to permit the waters from that dam to gush forth and rage before all the world, for my love of that man is so vast and abiding.

  The young attendant grants my request and leads me to Mahmoud’s quarters, but my lover is not to be found; his belongings, however, stand as he left them, and they carry his pleasant fragrance, the seal of his blessings and love, and Aslan dances and prances among them, and begs to remain in Mahmoud’s chambers to await his arrival, and when permission is bestowed he seats himself, with an aura of holiness, on the nicely made bed, and he caresses the sheets, whipping them about and crafting them into the shape of his love.

  Aslan is preoccupied with rearranging the folds of the sheets when Mahmoud enters the room silently behind him and closes the door, and Mahmoud lavishes many unexpected kisses upon him, on his ear lobes and his neck, and Aslan gushes and giggles and turns his face to observe his beloved, and he drowns in the tears of Mahmoud’s sky-blue eyes and suckles his fine white teeth as if they were the full and ample breasts of Umm-Jihan, and they embrace at length, then sit discussing events of the ensuing day, for from the moment that Umm-Jihan departed from his prison cell, Aslan has awaited their next meeting, and Mahmoud croons in Umm-Jihan’s voice and wriggles his fingers in dance, and Aslan’s laughter is loud and boisterous.

  And lo, my happy friend, all my sorrows were forgotten, just as they were whenever I was in the company of my beloved, dropping like filth into Elnahar Alaswad, disappearing, vanishing, like smoke from a narghile in the wind, and my eyes were engorged with the features of Mahmoud’s face and his beauty increased tremendously and I shaded myself from its shining brightness.

  After these things come to pass Mahmoud presses me to his body and he whispers in my ear that it is now time for us to celebrate, and he expresses a wish to take me to a far remove from this land of cells for tortured prisoners and dunghills of hatred among the people of my faith, to a new land, both near and far, a realm of golden scarves and masbakha beads and snaking narghiles, a place where no Jew has ever trod, behind hidden passageways and twisting byways that none but the initiated, the holders of the secret, would ever guess exists, and my beloved takes my hand in his own warm hand that sports a ring of gold and sharshar pearls, the aromas of his foreign perfumes heavy in my nostrils, and he opens before me the door to Damascus the whore, roiling and gurgling, and she is as an enchanted city suspended above everyday Damascus that no man may reach but by ascending a magic ladder hidden from view or by mounting a bewitched ass or by putting his fingers in the hand of his one true love.

  Mahmoud leads me into the Muslim Quarter late on an evening crowned by a full moon to a hidden wooden door pressed close between two filthy shops, closed at this hour, and the door swings on its hinges as quick-footed men slip past it, and Mahmoud brings to my attention that this is the entrance to the Nur Aladdin hammam, a meeting place for men in search of that pure, true friendship of men beloved to one another, and I do not protest when he pays the price of my admission, and a young bath-attendant hastens to place towels in our hands, leading us down a long, dark, narrow corridor, and my beloved plants a stealthy kiss on my neck, and after three or four doors have been opened and closed behind us we are presented with the key to a cabine, where we undress, and Aslan slouches for his body is woolly, unattractive, as it emerges from his clothes limb by limb, from his flaccid, hairy thighs to his chest dotted with curly black hairs, and Mahmoud, a captivating smile on his face, allows his own member to dangle freely like a stray arrow from the wheel of fortune, and he resumes kissing Aslan, and Mahmoud loves Aslan deeply.

  We quickly find the hammam itself, a large bathing room thick with scented steam and abuzz with life, many men lounging about at this late hour stark naked, and nearby, broad-muscled youths, and in the mouths of all are pearly teeth and laughter, and not one expresses surprise at the excited kisses Mahmoud and Aslan exchange; rather, they encourage the two and affirm their beauty, and several approach Mahmoud and place double kisses on each cheek and embrace him, asking after his health and congratulating him upon returning to the land of the living, for they well know of the hell to which he has been sent because of the libellous declarations of slanderers.

  Aslan proceeds, arms interlocked with his beloved, and he knows that they have reached a place of fraternity and friendship, that these are men in love, imbibing to the fullest – drinking, immersing themselves in the baths, smoking hashish – and they delight in one another’s bodies, washing their comrades’ backs, supplying kisses and embraces, and as one moustachioed man passes by Aslan and Mahmoud, a ripe and pungent aroma rising from under his arms and from his genitals, they pass their hands nonchalantly over his nipples, and Aslan is giddy with the freedom he has been granted and his temples flood with joy, and he knows and feels in every limb that for the first time in his life he is experiencing life at its truest, that he is living with utmost vitality, that he is being fashioned anew all at once, and his blood flows wildly and surges, his pupils are wide and his eyes sharp, and all his limbs are aflame and alive, and he shares kisses more precious than gold with everyone generously, without recompense or fear, and these kisses sparkle through his teeth in spite of the dense darkness of the hammam, and his laughter refuses to pass from his face.

  My happy friend, at that very hour Mahmoud broke away suddenly from Aslan’s grip and informed him they would meet up again after twenty minutes, without saying where their meeting would take place, and Aslan did not comprehend the meaning of this hasty parting and wished to protest, to plead for a reprieve for these precious moments during which he must endure the forced celibacy of being separated from his beloved, but he was compelled to continue alone on his journey, satisfying his increasingly zealous curiosity.

  Aslan inspects the damp wooden stools upon which lounge men of a certain age, their faces furrowed with wrinkles, and they stare broodingly, lecherously, after him, and on occasion they motion for him to sit near them or they send sweet kisses through the thick, steamy air, and Aslan, dizzy and delirious, approaches them for a light kiss, an oblique embrace, and he declines with a smile when they pat his buttocks and offer him a suck on their water pipes, and they expose their penises to him and he passes a caressing hand over them like that of the Bedouin for his horse, and sometimes he tastes drops of their seed that have smeared at the tip in thick and shiny beads.

  From there he arrives at a small pool of water, hidden behind the wooden stools, in which young men are massaging one another’s backs, and he dips his toes into the tepid water then enters the pool gingerly, removing the cloth draped over his loins and joining the group in the water, and at once he is inundated with fingers that knead his body and seductive whispers and petting and kisses as sweet as nectar, and Aslan weeps at the days of his youth and childhood that have vanished, borne away by the wind, ground to nothing, without his ever knowing about this place of love and lovemaking, and the Arab lads bathing alongside him in the tepid pool ask his name and they praise the thick, dark hair of his body, but he does not
tarry long with them for he is overcome by a great and burning desire to reunite with his beloved.

  It is then that I begin retracing my steps to find Mahmoud, passing by the wading youths, but Mahmoud is not among them, and my search for him lengthens, for my yellow-haired friend is nowhere to be found among the entwined men, nor do his limbs appear beneath the water of the tepid pool, and a light, nagging fear that perhaps Mahmoud has returned alone to his chambers grips Aslan’s breast, and he reviews all that transpired between them with regards to their appointed meeting place and time, and the details of his beloved’s hasty parting fill him with worry: Why did he disappear so suddenly, and why does he not reappear, and as Aslan toddles along in the darkness, his legs threaten to give way on the slippery surface of a stair overgrown with mould.

  He makes his way back along the same route he took before, but now the men seem dark and threatening to him, their very appearance debauched and sinful, and they are ugly and repulsive to behold, and his insides throb: How could I have let my beloved slip away and vanish into the darkness of Nur Aladdin? Aslan questions men who cross his path: Have they seen Mahmoud, that stately man of blue eyes and yellow hair, and they point in opposite directions or shrug their shoulders or snigger, and the shrewish hag mocks him with poisoned whisperings, that his beloved has departed and deserted him for ever, and Aslan threatens to drown her in the sweat-soaked waters of the pool, but the shrew is undaunted and carries on deriding him, saying that Mahmoud is now entangled in the arms of another man, more handsome than Aslan, taller and more masculine, for Mahmoud has no interest in the ugly young Jew’s arced eyebrows or the hair sprouting from every pore on his body.