by Неизвестный
Meanwhile there was the enticing web of this exciting city, with its driving passions and its wild sensual delights coursing through tens of thousands of heads numbed by the blaze of the sun and streaming undisguised through all the streets like the clouds of black flies hovering over the muddy waters of the tributaries of the Nile. Nimmer gave himself up wholly and unthinkingly to the pleasures and delusions of his acquaintances. With them he found delight in the game of tabla,1 in hashish, and in cards. For days on end he sat bent over with his friends and other dice-players, learned the tricks of their trade at a filthy table in an out-of-the-way coffeehouse, and played cards with them. He smiled at their crude and dirty jokes, took part in their shouting and quarrels, and delighted in the tricks performed by traveling wonderworkers and dervishes with trained monkeys and dancing snakes.
When success did not smile upon his games—and this happened to him too often—and when his thoughts of remorse, which were hidden like sleeping scorpions in some secret corner of his heart, began to awake and sting him with their venom, he was quick to seek refuge from them in hashish, behind gray mists of smoke in dark and moldy cellars. All his troubles, all his images of horror, would evaporate then, to turn into shadow plays and dances of flashing lights. The thick stone walls surrounding him on which his forehead struck like a fly trapped in an empty bottle collapsed and fell before the rings of smoke emerging soundlessly from his mouth. Broad and radiant paths stretched ahead of him, leading to banks of streams where date palms whispered, dripping with fragrant aromas, and the singing of birds rose to the summits of the distant hills of Samaria with a blue dome of sky above them, and among their ridges shadows and glimmers played and interspersed while sunbeams wove and circled around their crevices like the burning embers reflected in one side of the nargilleh bowl. At such sights Nimmer’s head would droop forward a little, and his eyes would close as if in sleep. A sense of bliss and contentment filled his heart, and reached his mouth in the shape of a smile, moving his lips, which had turned pale with the sweet intoxication.
As his friends had expected, here in the kingdom of magic and dreams in which his spirit walked even when he was awake, the bitterness that had filled his entire being during his first days in the city began to melt away, and in its place came a kind of calming equanimity, the pleasant fatigue of a man beginning to recuperate after a long illness. In this state of stupefied convalescence, his eyes, though broader and bigger because the pupils were always dilated, became blurred and frozen, with a longing for sleep always upon them. In all his words and gestures, in his every movement, could be sensed a moderation and a confidence which stemmed from patience and faith. A film of hallucinations enveloped his senses, which were imprisoned in chains of sleep and intoxication. For him the light of the sun was no brighter than the ordinary light of the moon, and everything was equal and quiet in the dimness and silence.
Nevertheless there were days when this veil of hallucinations and mists was torn as cobwebs are torn when touched by a cleansing hand. Then the darkness was shattered and wakening came, and with it amazement and thoughts of remorse and horror in a sobriety which brought no good. By the cold and sober light of day all the shadows of deception and illusion stole away, baring and destroying the bridges of false hope he had built in his imagination over the abysses of horror that were now again exposed to his sight. Shame penetrated into his innards, licking his bowels like the flames of a fire. He felt shamed by his cowardice and his idleness, by his wasting his money on games and revels, and by his neglect for his family. He was disgusted with himself for roaming about not doing a thing, as if there was no burden or suffering on his shoulders. The emptiness of this strange waiting for the favors of time was suddenly despicable to him, and pointless and impractical as well. His reason, clear now, showed him many contradictions in this policy, and repeatedly gave him one cold, clear piece of advice: the only way was for him to take the reins of his destiny into his own hands, to forcibly break free by his own efforts. To bring this about, he first had to get out of the powerless condition in which he now found himself, to build up his strength and be as he had been before, to struggle fearlessly against all obstacles and to bring this affair to a conclusion as quickly as possible.
Under the influence of these hasty and excited conclusions, Abu Il-Shawarab began doing some confused and surprising things. With the carelessness and impatience of spoiled children who have not learned to restrain their desires and are willing to give up everything they have to get what they think they want, he would give himself over to numerous idle projects which flashed momentarily through his mind, or to dubious though daring deeds. As soon as they occurred to him they would capture his imagination, and he would send desperate letters to relatives and friends and people of influence in Nablus. In these letters he would pour out all his grief, describing the poverty of his condition in the land of his exile, his longings for his children and family, and complaining about the unconcern of his friends, the “brothers of the wealthy who surrounded the tree and picked its fruit when it was at its prime, but now that it withers they leave it for the cold and the heat to devour.” And he would curse “treacherous time,” which made friends forget friends, and separated lovers. He would conclude by giving them instructions, telling them which officials to bribe, and which of the notables of Hebron to approach with suggestions of mediation and compromise. Begging them to stand beside him in his time of trouble and not to torment him any longer with prolonged hoping, he would conclude:
“Let no ransom seem too high to you. Don’t bargain. Pay whatever the exploiters demand, sell my possessions, and mortgage my properties. How many watermelons does a camel break? The main thing is to put an end to this thing, and the sooner the better; there is no power and no might save in Allah.”
The days of waiting for a reply either went by too fast or crawled slowly along like blind men trying to make their way through deserts of bare and level sands, and during these days fear and hope ruled him alternately and he swung between them like a ball. Unclear premonitions of disaster agitated his breast, he felt sudden and inexplicable pangs of dread, and then he flailed about like a fish which, attracted by a worm, leaves its home and is trapped. He was horrified by his hasty and unconsidered act, and regretted the stupidity that had made him give away his shelter. At other times he would suddenly be filled with confidence and faith in his stars and in the success of his project, and his heart whispered to him that very soon now his exile would be over.
During these periods of belief it was all so clear, so beyond any doubt, that he would hurry to his room, pack his belongings, settle his accounts with the proprietor of the hostelry, and rush out, with an excited sense of liberation, into the bustling streets and narrow winding markets of the city. There he would happily examine the wares on display, asking prices and selecting the best articles, which he wanted to prepare as presents for his relatives and friends. This wonderful belief which took root in his mind and radiated from his face did not fade even when he saw the frank contempt with which his friends greeted his boasts that his affairs were getting straightened out and that, Insh’allah, in a little while he would be going home, putting an end to this life of idleness and games which he was sick of. He was unmoved even by the pointed comments of Abd El-Kadir, an experienced man well versed in the ways of the world, who in his devotion to Nimmer did not want to see him deluding himself, knowing that the fall that comes with disillusion is more painful.
Abd El-Kadir preferred to express his doubts in hints or barbs or even stubborn silences of disregard and obvious disbelief. But once, when he could no longer bear Nimmer’s talk about his dreams, he decided to throw all the bitter truth mercilessly in the other’s face. Sweeping aside the backgammon board, he said angrily:
“Listen, Nimmer! This rice needs a lot more water yet! I know those Hebronites. It’s easier to drag a silk abbayeh out of a cactus plant than to get out of their clutches. The more you mollify them and chase them and
yield to them, the more they’ll raise their heads high and refuse and be stubborn, and bark like dogs beside their garbage. My advice to you is this: don’t delude yourself with vain hopes. Don’t grasp at cobwebs. What’s past is past. Send for your family to come here, and forget everything. Earn a living as best you can, and don’t walk around fuming and miserable like someone with an onion under his nose. You were a drum and you’re broken. Praise Him Who changes and is not changed and exists for ever!”
Abu Il-Shawarab made no reply, but his hands and lips trembled with excitement and sorrow. All that long evening until very late at night he sat on the low stool, lost in thought, drinking many cups of coffee and surrounding himself in a cloud of hashish and tobacco smoke. Finally he dropped to the floor and fell asleep, like a man rolling into a deep, dark pit.
Notes
1. Backgammon.
Chapter eight
Months passed, and there was no change in Nimmer’s situation. The mediation attempts made by a number of Nablus notables bore no fruit, despite their diligence and haste. The Hebronites, as Abd El-Kadir had anticipated, dragged out the negotiations interminably, so as to gain time to implement their secret intrigues, for they held zealously to the time-honored tradition of blood vengeance, as inscribed on their flag: “A hundred reversals but never defeated.” They did not reject the ransom offers made to them, nor did they refuse the first gifts, those known as “to go down to the well and to leave the camel,” sent regularly by the murderer’s family as a basis for postponing the revenge. The heads of their families even accepted the invitations of Nimmer’s peace emissaries and came to dine at the banquets these had prepared with the intention of softening their guests’ bitter resistance and coaxing them to concessions and forgiveness, and of discovering their peace conditions and the sum of the ransom they wanted. The Hebronite worthies came with their boys and their horses to where the cushions were laid down for the banquet in one place or another. Here they fell upon the meat and the rice, vociferously demanding fodder for their animals, making the best of the situation until the moment came for serious discussion, at which point they would put off their hosts with half-promises and vague replies and a variety of excuses. “Go back to your homes and come back another time,” they would tell the intercessors. “We must wait until all the relatives of the murdered man discuss this again, for they, finally, are the ones who have the last word on this important matter.” Realizing that their efforts had all been in vain, the negotiators would lose patience, and sadly and hopelessly head back to their homes.
The strategy of the Hebronites was at once simple and daring: to impoverish the murderer and his family as much as they could, to trouble their rest and not allow them to tend to their affairs. As for the blood vengeance—its time would come. The true Arab “takes blood vengeance after fifty years and says I’ve been quick!”
This devilish plan of theirs was very successful. From the incessant stream of emissaries coming to them from Abu Il-Shawarab, they received ample proof that the murderer was in Egypt, and that he had become as soft as wax. They could knead him as they wished. The more Nimmer’s intercessors continued their activities in his name and with his permission, squandering money without keeping accounts, giving bribes right and left, and offering concession after concession, the greater grew the arrogance and the greed of Abu Faris’s family. They grew so excessive in their demands that even the tolerant Abu Za’id, the last intercessor, who had seen many things in his long life and knew how to restrain his feelings under the frozen mask of his thin face, which was creased like the trunk of an ancient olive tree, lost his patience and self control on hearing their insolent conditions. Unable to bear their intrigues any longer, he threw aside the cushion he was sitting on, rose to his knees as if preparing to get up and leave, and after casting angry glances at the company seated there, spoke in a quavering voice:
“Pray to the Prophet! Extortion will not fill your pitchers; you will gain nothing but a mote of dust…By this white beard, I have never in my life been so mocked and ridiculed…I have been among you for more than a month now, and I know your intentions: you do not want peace, you want blood. You don’t want to put out the fire, but to inflame it further. And what good are words? But know this, by the beard of the Prophet!—if you send me away empty-handed no one of Nimmer’s family will come again to bow his head to you or offer you the hand of peace…The hammer you are swinging now will find an equal anvil beneath it…”
Abu Za’id took his time folding his abbayeh and fixing his belt, with the clear intent of giving them a chance to thoroughly consider the consequences of their stubbornness, and to change their minds in time. But all he saw was the deep hatred engraved on their faces, the bitterness and malice expressed in each of their movements. Getting up with a painful decision, he muttered a few quiet words of parting, and strode toward the doorway of the house.
The next evening, even before Abu Za’id reached home, the news of his return and of the failure of his mission was already circulating among Nimmer’s relatives. A little later, even though the hour was late, they all gathered in an upper chamber of his house and waited expectantly for his appearance, hoping to hear all the details from his lips. Abu Za’id, weary and violently angry at Abu Il-Shawarab and his family who had coaxed him to get involved in this disgraceful affair as a mediator even though he had known from the beginning that only shame and failure would result from his mission, came upstairs and spoke to them at length about the vile plots and intrigues of the Hebronites. Full of contempt and disgust he outlined all the details of the Hebronites’ deceitfulness, and demanded of his listeners not to demean themselves again by making more offers of concessions, none of which would be of any avail. And when one of those present asked hopelessly what to do about Nimmer, who in his suffering in exile was sending them streams of letters containing pleas which would melt a heart of stone, Abu Za’id replied with a meaningful shrug of the shoulders. He forcefully condemned their weakness and exaggerated pity, and stirred up their injured pride, until all present were convinced he was right. Finally they called for writing materials, and wrote a long, resentful yet conciliatory letter to Abu Il-Shawarab in which, among stern words of moral instruction, they told him the whole truth without any pretenses, thoroughly and finally destroying any grain of hope he might still have had. In the margins of the sheet Abu Za’id added the following words:
“Listen to the cup and it will bring you to ruin. You have sent us many words and involved even me in the mess caused by your hot temper. I have just returned in shame and empty-handed from the Hebronites, that treacherous breed to whom the only great thing is a camel. During the days I spent with them I learned their spirit and grasped the meaning of their intrigues, the curse of Allah be upon them! They want to impoverish you down to the last loaf of bread, to strip you of your last shirt, and to use your money for bribes, to hasten the judgment and to tumble you into a deep pit. Your hands are now in cool water; don’t put them into boiling water. Turn your back on them until the blind man regains his sight. Chains are for men, weakness and panic for women. No counsel or reason can help against the decree of Allah, from Whom we come and to Whom we all return.”
Nimmer was totally engrossed in shuffling the cards, which were dirty and swollen from sweat and use, when the letter carrier, who knew where he regularly sat in this coffeehouse, made his way among the tables and handed him the letter. The friends he was playing with shook their heads on seeing his hands suddenly start trembling and his face alternately flushing and turning pale as he read. In bewildered silence they watched him crumple up the letter between his fingers and throw it aside with a curse. Then he got up and picked it up again, tore it into pieces, and put the pieces in his lap. When they saw the expression of despair contorting his face and the misery in his eyes, the questions died on their lips and they turned their heads away without saying anything.
For some time Abu Il-Shawarab sat frozen on the spot without moving, lik
e a terrified bird seeing its nest being destroyed and its offspring killed, while itself unable to screech or chirp or flee. Finally he pulled himself together forcibly, and put on a smile of scorn and contempt, which looked more like a contortion of agony than a smile. With uncertain motions he took up the cards again, tossed them from hand to hand, and invited his friends to renew their interrupted game.
He shuffled and dealt, made a mistake in the count, and suddenly lost patience with what he was doing. With a fury rising in him, he flung the cards away from him, and they scattered in all directions. Leaping up like someone suddenly awakened, he struck his head on the lamp hanging over his chair. Pressing his hands to the injured place, he rushed, bent over, to his room in the hostelry, to be alone with his pain.
Like a wounded animal hiding in its cave to lick its injuries, Abu Il-Shawarab dropped down on his mat in the corner and sat there, his hands around his knees and his head leaning against the wall. He sat there like this, depressed, all his previous thoughts and plans evaporating like smoke, until evening.
Late at night he crept out of his room and walked wearily to the moldy cellar. With a dry mouth and chafed lips he thirstily drew in the hashish smoke which obliterates all griefs. With the deep breaths he took to fill his lungs with the powerful smoke, he felt it also penetrating to the left of his breast, where with gentle featherlike strokes it calmed the swelling that had risen up to his throat to stifle him. And then came the expected relief and expansion. His tense and acutely responsive nerves relaxed. The rustling of ants tingling on his back and under the roots of his hair stopped. Waves of delight, warm and clean, poured over his skin, his thoughts became misty, and all fear and despair vanished, present and future merging into a serene, comfortable, and painless experience, and in white visions that cannot be expressed he rocked like a child relieved of its suffering, who falls asleep, calmly and quietly, in his mother’s lap.