by Неизвестный
The last of the mists had evaporated. A great sulphurous sun emerged from among the yellow desert sands, rose as from behind the veil of orange dust and sand, and flooded the room with the radiance of a flame. A long narrow beam of sunlight glittered like the blade of a spear and struck him full in his pale contorted face, which was turned in horror toward the window. Abu Il-Shawarab gave a start and swayed, as if something outside him had pushed him, or some inner voice awoken him. He struck himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand as if something had suddenly become clear to him, and jumped decisively to his feet.
“He’s the only one!” he mumbled to himself, getting dressed quickly. “He’ll solve it all for me! By Allah the Almighty, he will!” he kept on whispering in complete self-assurance. “I’ll find him at Azhar.2 I’ll put on my best clothes so that they’ll let me see him straight away. I just mustn’t get into a panic. Approach him quietly,” he repeated to himself with firmness.
But despite his intention to leave quietly, he charged at the door; finding it closed impassably, he flung himself violently at the sacks, as if they were his worst enemies. He pulled and shoved them with his hands, and kicked them with his feet. When he had cleared a narrow space he pushed his way through and rushed out without even turning around to lock the door behind him. Almost doubled over, he ran along the corridor, down the stairs, and was soon in the street.
The Azhar Mosque has a special quarter allotted to it at the edge of the Old City on the other side of the Nile. To reach it from his khan Nimmer had to cross almost the entire length of the city. He took various detours to shorten his journey somewhat, cutting across dirty winding alleys and running down long, straight streets full of dust and din and strange traffic, his belt dragging behind him, his hairy chest protruding through the openings of his thin silk lemon-colored robe, which was made with rows upon rows of tiny seams in the shapes of fringes and flowers. As he ran he talked to himself and waved his arms about, often bumping into passersby and pushing them aside if they stood in his way. These would bristle up at first: they drew back their shoulders and thrust out their chests, and slowly turned around to scrutinize him with anger and surprise in their gaze, as if ready to fight him. But when they saw him they would lower their heads in pity, and turn aside reverently without injuring or insulting him, taking him by his strange actions and wild appearance for a dervish whose senses had become muddled in the course of his devotions.
Covered with sweat like a tired horse, Nimmer finally arrived at one of the large iron gates of the Azhar Mosque3 that stood wide open. He flew across the huge open square of white marble that gleamed in the radiance of the sun and directed his steps toward the inner halls that hummed and bustled like a hive of bees. Totally immersed in his quest, his heart beating wildly, he ran through the dozens of halls and arched foyers, among the numerous groups of sheikhs and disciples of all countries and races who sat on mats and carpets chanting the Koran in curling melancholy voices or lay silently musing and contemplating distant worlds of mystery. With the stubbornness of a dog which looking for its master completely forgets its fear of humans and pushes its way through dense crowds, sniffing here and coming back and sniffing again, Nimmer ran about among the groups of sitting and lying men, searching for Sheikh Al-Azhar4 with a wild gaze from which madness shone. He did not find him in his usual place. Turning, he moved off in one direction, then changed his mind and tried another, going around in circles and mumbling feverishly to himself, wringing his hands in distress.
A Sufi dervish dressed in rags, a tall thin man completely wrecked bodily by his many mortifications, who traveled much and spoke like a drunken man or one intoxicated with love, accosted Nimmer and attached himself to him, raining upon him a torrent of speech and then asking him what he was looking for. Nimmer, who at first had not listened to his harangue and had ignored his presence, suddenly stopped walking and stared at the dervish with silent agony and pleading in his eyes, and as if delivering his fate up to the other, placed his hand on his shoulder and told him what he wanted.
The dervish, recognizing him for a lost and afflicted man, grasped his hand, pressed it hard, and drew him along behind him. Silently he pushed a way through the clusters of men, led him along winding side corridors and past long rows of rooms that looked like monks’ cells or nests in a dovecote. At the edge of the mosque, in a side wing that had corniced pillars around three of its sides, he knocked with his fist on a closed wooden door. No answer came, and he pushed it open. Without turning his face to Nimmer, who stood there bewildered, trying to pause for a moment to make himself more presentable, the dervish stepped inside, dragging Nimmer after him.
Sheikh Al-Azhar, white-haired and wrinkled of face, everything on him and around him white, raised his round pleated laffah which shaded his face and the large book lying in front of him on a high cushion, creased his eyebrows, and gazed in stern surprise at these men who had dared to enter his library and disturb him during his studies. On recognizing the dervish, however, his face beamed and broke into an expression of concern. He put his book aside, placed his beads on top of it, and hastily raised himself from the cushions on which he was sitting, poking his small childlike feet into his orange sandals as he did so, and took several steps toward them.
The dervish bowed to him, took his hand and brought it up to his mouth, kissed it several times and then rested his forehead on it until the sheikh raised his left hand, and mumbling something, placed it on the dervish’s head. The blessing concluded, he tapped the dervish affectionately on the shoulder and made him sit down beside him on the mat. Then he turned to Nimmer, who had been standing there all this time, pale and trembling like a leaf, asked politely about his health, and offered him his hand.
Noticing the terrible agitation of his strange visitor, the sheikh greeted him very warmly. To try to calm him, he attempted to divert his mind to other matters, and so to disperse the dread that was displayed on his face. He pulled a cushion from under him, offered it to Nimmer, and invited him to sit down. Then he spoke to him in a simple and humble manner, asking him about the town he came from, the mufti and the cadi serving there—his disciples once—and various other peripheral questions.
Because of the reverence he felt for the sheikh, and also because he did not want to be the first to begin a conversation, Nimmer answered all the questions briefly and halfheartedly. All this time he swayed and rocked to and fro as if sitting on embers, now opening his mouth and now stopping it with his hand to prevent the words which were on the tip of his tongue from bursting out against his will.
Realizing that it was impossible to calm Nimmer, the sheikh turned to the dervish and in a quiet voice gave him several errands to do, so he could remain alone with Nimmer. As soon as the dervish had left, he placed one arm on a cushion and placed his chin in his hand. Looking intently at Nimmer with questioning and friendly eyes, he smiled serenely at him and spoke:
“Kir In-sha-Allah! 6 Do you need my counsel and guidance? I will be very glad if I can help you in any way, especially since you come from the Holy Land.” And, seeing that his visitor still did not speak, as if uncertain whether he should or not, and was vainly trying to say something and then stopping as if he didn’t know where to begin, the sheikh added:
“Speak, my son, speak! Speak it all openly, and you will feel better. I will listen to everything you say. After all, there are no strangers among us…” Pity and deep compassion were suddenly apparent in his voice and in all the lines of his face.
Nimmer summoned all his strength, and stood up. With pale lips and a frozen gaze he silently approached the sheikh, extending his hands toward him in dumb pleading. He grasped the edge of the sheikh’s robe, brought it up to his lips, and covered his face with it. Then he retreated and sat down again on the cushion he had just got up from.
In whispers, with long pauses, and with a demented expression on his face, Nimmer began his confession. In his bewilderment and agitation words and phrases escaped from
his mouth without order or sequence, but as he went on his speech became more ordered, the descriptions of events grew shorter, clearer and more precise, and thus more touching in their simplicity. With a sharp pleasure, a passion close to cruelty, he told the sheikh of his miseries and confessed his crime and guilt. He made no attempt to defend or justify himself, nor did he belittle his pride, his stubbornness, or any of the other bad qualities that had been his since childhood and that had always been a stumbling block to him.
When he came to the vision of horror and the terrible tortures of the previous night, he was again overcome by that dark mysterious fear. His soul swayed within him as on a storm tossed sea, his memory failed him, and he began blubbering disconnected and incomprehensible words. Suddenly, as if stabbed in the back with a dagger, he trembled, screamed, flung himself to the floor, sank his head into a cushion, and howled in agony. When, some long and dreadful moments later, he slowly raised his head to look around him, he sensed the sheikh leaning over him and touching him on the shoulder. Nimmer wrung his hands at the sheikh in despair and moaned:
“Father! Master! What will happen to me? What must I do now? What does the vision mean? What do they want from me? Tell me! Nothing is hidden from you! My soul be your atonement, tell me!”
The sheikh turned away from him, drew back a little, and started pacing the floor of the room with pursed lips and crinkled brow, concentrating on the problem. After a long silence, during which Nimmer consumed him with his eyes, lurking for his every gesture or motion, the sheikh suddenly stopped his pacing, halted beside Nimmer, and spoke to him in a soft voice which sounded as if he was gently arousing himself from sleep:
“These are wonders and the workings of Providence! There is no strength and no might save in Allah! It is a severe warning. The whole thing is clear and evident and requires no interpretation. Our Lord (be He praised and exalted!) is angry with you and wishes to destroy you. You have killed; you have desecrated the Holy and blasphemed His prophets. What have you not done?! It is a wonder that He has been patient with you as long as this and has not yet squashed you into dust. Yet He is the One and the Only, He is the judge and the punishment. Everything depends on His will and His decree and on the fate that He has determined for every creature before it was created. If He wills, He will have mercy on us even if we sin greatly, or destroy us even if we are righteous. All is written and sealed from the beginning, and there is no escape, and no changing this…”
“Ah!” yelled Nimmer, slapping his head and pulling his hair. “Is there no hope then? How? How? What will I do now? What will I do?” He kept repeating this last question, weeping and wringing his hands all the while.
Nimmer’s weeping, and his miserable thin figure shaken with desolation and dread, made a strong impression on the sheikh. In the pale face contorted with despair, in the feverish eyes darting about in frenzy, he saw so much sorrow and agony that he was overwhelmed with pity. His original feeling of compassion now swept through him like a wave. Softening, he gazed at him thoughtfully and spoke, as if inspired.
“What are you to do, you ask me? Don’t despair. Allah’s mercies are deeper than the sea. If a man were to live a thousand years he would not learn His secrets or understand even a fraction of His ways. It is true that the Proselyte is as his name is, vengeful and watchful, pursuing his enemies to the bitter end…You offended him and desecrated his festival and his flag…Nevertheless there is still a way in which you may save yourself. By submission and begging for forgiveness it may be possible for you to arouse his compassion and turn back his vengeance. Make yourself a proper flag, and a proper crown on a proper staff. Then, barefoot and living on alms, go to his tomb, kiss it and moisten its earth with your tears and ask his forgiveness. That is what you should do. Perhaps he will give heed to your prayer and remove his hand from upon you…”
“I’ll do it! I’ll go, Master!” Nimmer cried, bravely, as a spark of hope lit up in his face. “I’ll prepare a flag and do everything else you say, right away. If the blood-avengers recognize me and kill me, it doesn’t matter…for a man cannot die twice, nor can he escape death, is that not so, Master?”
“Yes, it is so, my son!” the sheikh affirmed with absolute certainty. “No man dies a moment before his appointed time. All the same, you must not endanger yourself needlessly. The Hebronites, whose stink you can smell at great distances, Allah preserve you—if they recognize you, you won’t get away from them alive. They’ll neither respect a celebrant nor shrink from committing a crime. There’s still time to think the matter over carefully. You would be best to wait for the day when the celebrants return from the grave of the Messenger,7 prayers and peace upon him! Then, when they go to prostrate themselves at the two holy sites, the Mosque of Omar and the Cave of Machpelah, join them. Among all those people it will be easier for you to remain unrecognized and to do what you have to do without attracting undue attention. Caution is one half of wisdom…this way seems the best…I too will feel content that I have given you good advice,” he added with enthusiasm. “But should disaster overtake you…”
“No! No, my Master!” Nimmer interrupted him impatiently, waving his hand as if to contradict the sheikh, and getting to his feet. “I mustn’t wait even one more day. Why should I stay here any longer? I’ll go, whatever happens…I’m not afraid of death. All that matters is that I won’t see those eyes pursuing me anymore! Can I live like this?…No! I can’t take anymore! I can’t take it!” Shouting this with terror, he again spread his hands pleadingly to the sheikh.
The sheikh started pacing the floor of the room again. He seemed to be considering the question deeply. Without noticing what he was doing, he approached the cushion, picked up the book that was lying there, carried it to one of the book cabinets, then to another, took it out again, and put it back on the cushion, then suddenly stopped pacing but remained silent.
Nimmer, who had waited all this time in great concern, his eyes glued to the sheikh’s face, could no longer restrain himself. Trembling where he stood, he made a deep but hasty bow like one in a great hurry, sighed, and started retreating toward the door.
“Wait! Wait!” the sheikh finally said, shaking his head and his hand decisively. “It may be that you are right.” His voice was assured now. “The Proselyte calls you—only a blind man cannot see that. Who and what am I to oppose his will? Toward life or toward death—it is his secret, and what is our strength against him? Go!” he commanded, again with unexpected enthusiasm, “go toward your fate. Speed your actions, Allah be with you and lighten your suffering.” Saying this, he approached Nimmer, patted him affectionately on the shoulder and took his arm, leading him out of the door and accompanying him along the corridor.
At the stairs Nimmer grasped the sheikh’s hand with deep emotion and gratitude, lowered his head to it, and kissed it with burning lips, then drew himself erect, shook his shoulders as if casting off a burden, and without turning to the sides rushed off headlong on his way…
That afternoon Nimmer completed all his preparations. He sold everything he possessed, bought the gold crown and the silk for the flag and the embroidery, and settled up all his debts with the lower world in which he had been living. Barefoot, wearing a robe of thick sackcloth over his nakedness and a tall white cylindrical dervish’s hat on his head, carrying a censer of frankincense in one hand and a staff in the other, and with a tin pail hanging from a rope on his back, he left the khan, and before night fell he had crossed the city and was heading eastward toward the tomb of Ibrahim Al-Khalil, his destination.
Notes
1. Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, who were buried in Hebron.
2. The religious university in Cairo.
3. Mosque and study center for religious Moslems.
4. the president of the religious university; one of the prominent man of Islam.
5. a kind of wrapping cloth.
6. “All will be well if Allah so wills it.”
7. Mohammed
Chapter ten
A winter Friday in Hebron. A day of cold and drizzle. Low leaden skies, mud, slush.
A heavy mist that looked like frozen smoke lay over the town and the hills around it, on which stood strong ancient olive and carob trees. It enveloped the walls, the houses, and the minarets of mosques, and one could barely make out a number of dark shapes marking their location. By the sides of the paths, down the hill slopes, and from the vineyards on their ridges, streams of murky water rushed down, carrying silt and the decay of vine leaves to the lower streets and the houses and shops in the decline. The bare fig trees and the vines that lay lifelessly upon them, gripping their bared trunks, dripped incessantly. In the pale light of this dismal winter morning they seemed frozen in a last wail, and looked like the ribs of skeletons or the arms of corpses, signifying the sorrow of withering and decay in their contorted spasm of dying and perishing.
With deadened senses and a frozen stare in his eyes, Nimmer slowly made his painful way up the steep hill toward the point of the high spire of the Cave of Machpelah, which rose above the horizon like an illuminating beacon. The flickering of its burning fires pierced the mist, spreading quivering orange beams full of mystery and glory. Water, with fragments of frost in it, streamed down Nimmer’s long white hair and dripped from his unkempt beard onto his bare hairy chest, and from the bloated rags of his robe onto his blue calves.
He seemed not to feel the cold, not to be aware of wind or rain, or to notice any obstacle. Moving freely, as if not touching the ground, he was totally immersed in the visions present to his inner eye, his mind filled with the marvelous faith that consumes body and soul and sets the blood racing at astonishing speed. Wading in water up to his waist, Nimmer crossed the Street of the Glaziers, and then, his bare feet squelching in the mud, he walked with his long staff through the open vegetable market, where the crying of a baby from an upper story somewhere mingled with the sound of turning hand mills. In the roofed Street of the Merchants, where the darkness was still thick and dense, he stopped beside a long open furnace, from the far end of which flames danced and lit up the whole cave like space. Bent over, Nimmer stared for a long while at the baker, whose face was black with soot but full of light and movement. Thrusting his staff before him like a blind man, and knocking with it on the steps before him, he descended and entered. He approached the pile of fuel, put his pails and bags down on the ground, bent over and groped around in them, and drew out the censer which hung from chains that had coins and talismans attached to them. Then he filled the censer with incense and turned to the baker, and in a sleepy, whispering voice, asked him for some embers from his fire, thrusting the censer out to him as he spoke.