by Yusuf Idris
Once more the wide orderly streets come into view. Once more the people are clean-shaven and well dressed and their features are fine. He leaves the pushcarts behind and joins the fleet of taxicabs and buses and private cars. The nightmare is over. The air is lighter, the world looks brighter, everything smiles as he looks at the familiar surroundings of Kasr el Nil Square. Here a light breeze begins to blow, bringing people back to life after the lethargic heat of the day. The mighty river flows eternally under the crowded bridge. The tall buildings on the horizon look like pigeon houses. The city is breathtakingly beautiful.
When he reaches his apartment he goes straight to the terrace and throws himself in an armchair and tries once again to sort out the events of the day.
VIII
During the interval nothing had changed. There was the same old study with the same old terrace overlooking the Nile, watching the shift of scenes. The glaring light of day was slowly fading as if an invisible hand were turning off the sun-disk. The city paled as the light faded. The rays of the sinking sun dazzled the eye as they broke on the windowpanes. The sky was tinged with red and, below, the city took on the evening hue of steel before it settled in nocturnal blackness. It was almost totally engulfed by the night except for the myriad lights speckled on the surface.
The terrace was alone to observe the scene. Judge Abdallah was far away, brooding, motionless, scanning the face of the sky. His thoughts were hovering around a spot, lost in the shadows, somewhere beyond the minaret of Al Azhar. From time to time the metallic sheen of his watch would flash before his sight, and a scathing sensation would gush like a hemorrhage, urging him to fling it away into the river.
But he never did. Nor did he sit up all night on the terrace. In the morning he was on his way to work as usual, accompanied by his customary headache. The watch was still on his wrist reminding him of that nightmare excursion. He would hold it up for all his friends to see before he started to tell them the story. He had to drop many details. When he came to the blind alley, the scathing sensation returned and he would gloss over some of the descriptions and move hurriedly to the next part.
He never allowed Farghali to speak to him of Shohrat. Nevertheless, he was not against picking up whatever news Farghali communicated. How she had turned bad, and got a reputation and styled herself Amira.
One day driving down Al Malika Street he slowed down as he happened to catch a glimpse of her standing at a bus-stop. She was obviously not waiting for the bus. Her lips were painted with real lipstick, and she was wearing the same skirt in which she used to come to work, but what particularly caught his eye was the new blouse that matched the skirt.
DID YOU HAVE TO TURN ON THE LIGHT, LI-LI?
It was a joke at the start. Perhaps it was a joke in the end too. Actually it was not a joke in the real sense, but an incident, rather, which happened to involve those fabricators of jokes who were past masters of the art. It was not the fact that all those people who normally go to bed at dawn should rise at that hour in order to pray, which was the joke, or the fact that for the first time in the annals of the quarter of Al Batiniyya—that den of opium, Seconal and hashish—the people answered the call to prayer which came from the minaret at the break of day.
Nor was there anything odd in their praying with their heads foggy with dope. Forgetting that they have already recited the Fatihah they recite it another time, but they forget the words and then they remember them in the middle of a prayer so they start all over again. The joke, actually, came just as they were about to end the prayer. The incident is still one of the cherished tales they are fond of recounting. People around there were drug addicts for the most part, reared in banter and humor, for whom jokes and anecdotes were a staple diet. No sooner would an incident occur than they would seize upon it, adding frills and embellishments until they made of it a fantastic epic to rival the best of their local lore.
Oddly enough, the first prostration had gone in perfect order, so had the second, and only the third prostration, the salutation, and the uttering of the words “There is no god but God and Mohamed is the Prophet of God” remained to terminate the prayer.
“God is the greatest!” called the Imam as he kneeled for the third prostration. They all kneeled after him, albeit a little awkwardly, their joints stiff from disuse as most of them had not performed their prayers for longer than they cared to admit. Ten long rows piously repeated “God be praised” three times, and waited for the final response from the Imam to conclude the prayer. When that failed to come on time some began to suspect their count was wrong. So again, slowly, they repeated it, but still the response failed to come. A few resigned themselves to waiting, only too glad to rest, their dizzy heads still laden with dope, but most began to wonder what had happened as it was becoming clear the situation was rather odd. Still, they were hopeful that the Sheikh would presently pronounce the words “God is greatest” and all would be well. But the longer they waited the more their suspicion was confirmed that they were facing a crisis. All sorts of possibilities began to storm through their bowed heads which none of them dared to raise.1 Had the Sheikh been suddenly taken ill? Or had he passed out, or simply died? Or could it be some devil had induced him to take a whiff of hash, and he was suffering the consequences now? Yet in spite of these conjectures they still expected the response to come and restore peace to their minds which by now had gone on a wild rampage in the realms of phantasy.
Exactly how long they waited no one was certain. According to some accounts it could have been two minutes or it could have been two hours, that is, if one were to disregard exaggerations which affirmed that the pause had lasted until echoes of the noon call to prayer began to reach them from Al Azhar. There are also those who insist they are still kneeling up to this moment.
But what was certain even to the most befuddled was that an unusual length of time had passed and that all was not well with the Sheikh. He had certainly not pronounced the takbeer for which they were all waiting and which would have put an end to their kneeling posture, and the snoring wheezing out of all those drooling jaws.
At this point each one of them found himself faced with a problem he had never encountered before. What exactly should he do now, and what do the laws of religion say with regard to a situation like this? If one of them was to move and raise his head, would that annul his prayer, and possibly that of the entire congregation? And would he alone take the blame? Being freshly returned prodigals made them once again recall visions of a God who promised reward and punishment, wielding paradise and the bottomless pit of hell. To the newly repentant new transgression was more than they would want on their consciences.
But time was starting to weigh, and wicked thoughts began to assail them. Like scoffing for instance, not only at their predicament but at the thought of what might arise if the Sheikh had got it into his head to take a snooze or, even worse, he had simply dropped dead. They would probably have to remain in that posture till the following day, or possibly till doomsday before someone discovered them, as the mosque was not a place people around there were fond of frequenting, for merely to walk past it stirred the conscience. But they were afraid to dwell too long on their devilish thoughts or on the ridiculous situation they were in, since they were irreverent by nature, and they dared not succumb to impiety for fear of adding to their sins. Even the most optimistic were forced to admit that they were in a real predicament when the light of dawn began to break, and the wan light of the electric lamp slowly faded. It was pitch-black when they had started to pray and now with daylight appearing no doubt remained that the prostration was uncommonly long. The sporadic sounds of coughing, growing increasingly more frequent, were the only signs of impatience with a situation which did not promise to end soon. It was impossible to know what had happened without raising their heads, and if they raised their heads they annulled the prayer. None was willing to take the lead and bring upon himself the opprobrium of such a
deed. All were waiting for someone else to start. The blame would then be on him. There was a vast difference between the guilt of one who leads and one who merely follows. The prolonged prostration was becoming an undisputable fact and it lasted until it defeated all doubts and misgivings and any inclination to laugh at the matter.
And since there is no joke so far, and since the real laughs haven’t started yet, let us leave them as they are, prostrate, each of them fearing to be the first to trespass.
For that’s exactly how I left them. I, Sheikh Abdel Al, Imam of the Mosque of El Shabokshi, in the quarter of Al Batiniyya.
Did you have to turn on the light, Li-Li?
* * *
—
Yes, it is I. Glory to him who makes the night follow the day. Sleep is in my voice for I wake with the cries of the dawn. I am the climber of the dark spiral staircase of the minaret. I fear for my chest and for my voice from the morning dew. The cold invades my eyes and I shut them from habit. I know that my call to prayer falls on deaf ears. The Godly are few in this quarter, and the truly Godly prefer the mosque of Al Azhar, not far from here. It serves nothing to strain my voice for it is drowned by the amplifiers from the forest of minarets surrounding mine. My call is for myself, for I am content to know my voice has reached God; that He knows I call for the ordained prayers as He has ordered. I am content to know He forgives the people of these parts whether they sleep or they wake. For in sleep they shut their eyes on their wrongdoings and when they wake it is only to do wrong again. Perhaps it is providence that got me appointed to this mosque, endowed long ago by a Turk who had whipped and looted his way to fortune. By building a mosque and making his grave lie near the Kiblah he hoped to buy redemption. He believed that the people’s prayers, generation after generation, would bring him nearer to paradise. Even paradise you want to reach on the backs of others, you Turk!
I am the new graduate from Al Azhar. I loved God from childhood, and of my own will linked my existence to His faith. I smile at those who imagine I entered the famous school in order to become a chanter of the Koran because God endowed me with a pleasing voice. That is not the reason why I chose to enter Al Azhar, nor why I started to learn the Koran when I was a boy. The reason goes beyond that. A call from God . . . It had to do with my place in a universe where none but He deserves to live.
Did you have to turn on the light, Li-Li?
* * *
—
How dazzling was the light in the midst of total darkness. One lone lamp in one lone room on the roof which seemed to flood the whole of Al Batiniyya where it crouched like a deserted camp. The houses, old and crumbling, bulged with living beings. My flock, my burden, or more precisely my defeat. My defeat at attempting to awaken God in the hearts of those who wanted to forget His existence.
I struggled, and at the end of a week there was a spark that kindled hope. I struggled more. They cast aside their false promises and their voices began to rise. I pressed on. They came, threatening, their eyes sparking fire. Listen. We don’t want a wet blanket around here. If you want to stay here, mind your own business or you’ll get what you’re looking for. Nevertheless, instinctively I knew they were good folk, that in their hearts they accepted God and that they sought Him. But in their lives there is no place for a total God. He must accept them as they are, they will worship Him in their own way or not at all. According to their brand of religion prayer was two prostrations every Friday, and although they fasted by day during Ramadan, from sunset to sunrise they fed on weed. No transgression there. Show me the text where it is prohibited. As for alms, the rich gave freely. Sometimes in kind, as the faith commands. The pilgrimage to Mecca was the crowning glory for big-time traffickers which allowed them at least to swear by the Prophet’s grave when they made a deal. Five people only have I barely won over, the rest had no faith in me. I realized the fault was mine. Before I could lead them I had to know them; I had to live their lives to change their ways. I had to be of them so that they be of me. Theirs was another language. They had other values, and other concepts, and special keys that opened the door to their pale. I went out to them, I sat in their cafés, I visited their homes. I never frowned on their doings. My heart was with them as I watched and listened, and slowly came near.
Did this have to be, Li-Li?
* * *
—
It was ordained, whether it was she or another. I did not know that purity to that extent was seductive, nor did it occur to me that in spite of my devotion to God I was only a youth of twenty-five. I am chaste. Happy. Even in this quarter where the ancient residents, like the new, had taken refuge from the world. Then as now they were fond of meditating, except that now they dwell on levity while those of old dwelled on the sublime which led to the fountainhead: to God.
I did not comprehend except when the signs became frequent, and unmistakable in spite of the purity of my intentions. One day I happened to recite to them. They liked my voice and they called me again. I knew then that I had touched their hearts. The doors that until now were shut in my face began to open. They wanted nothing of me but my voice and my recitation. They rejected the preacher, and the mentor, and the Imam; only my voice could draw them where I wanted them to be. God in the abstract is hard to conceive, so let the beginning be through His word.
The listeners who gathered around me were all men. I did not know that they screened a larger audience of women. The moment I began a recitation the rumor spread like wildfire and in a flash they flocked down and came to listen, sighing with every cadence. Trouble began. Every time I went to the mosque I found a woman waiting for me. Always with a question, or the pretext of one. But I never allowed my eyes to travel from the ground. Still, I was making headway. I had succeeded in getting them to pray and I was happy to see they were urging the men to do the same.
One day I was asked a question that rocked me to my bones. It was a young woman. Those feet upon which my gaze was fixed could only belong to a young woman. Faltering a little at first and then becoming more bold, she told me that for months her husband had deserted her bed; she tried everything to bring him back but nothing worked. His addiction was the cause. There was no hope of a cure and she feared the evil path. What was she to do?
Soon the questions became confessions. Master, I obeyed the devil and gave in to the delivery boy whom my husband sent with the vegetables. What shall I do? What shall I do, Master, for I saw you in a dream? What must I do, Master, when my brother comes stoned in the early hours and will not let up until I yield? Every night I yield. I want to repent. Will God accept repentance from the likes of me? I want to repent at your hands, Master.
There was no hint of repentance nor a shadow of restraint in the way she clung to my hand.
Satan.
These people had long and frequently given themselves up to him. For long years they had strayed in the paths of ruin and they knew no other. Satan. Around me and everywhere. In the woman’s low whisper. In the look aimed at my back burning like a red-hot iron straight from the flames of hell. To face the devil without flinching I learned to master the bold stare and by that I lost the timidity which made of me the object of their lust. And with a withering look, I was able to stay their gallant approaches.
Did you have to turn on the light, Li-Li?
* * *
—
“My name is Li-Li, haven’t you heard of me?”
A bold stare deflected my gaze where I looked. Naturally, I had heard of her. She accounted for half the rumors and gossip and all the contentions that kept the quarter humming. Part-English, part-Egyptian, she was the wonder of all time with her glossy red hair and honey-colored Egyptian eyes. Li-Li was the fruit of a week-old marriage between her mother Badia and a British soldier called Johnny. The morning after he spent the night with Badia, unlike our shifty lads, instead of giving her the slip, the dolt asked her to marry him. A week after they were married h
e was called back to duty and she never saw him again. He got killed in the war. To that short-lived union Badia owed a monthly allowance she had never dreamed of, which for twenty-five years she cashed in regularly at the British Embassy. For the first time money ran freely through her hands, which tempted her to run a small business financing local small-time pushers.
It was there that Laila, as her mother called her, grew up. Li-Li was the name her English grandparents gave her when they came from England after the war to see their grandchild. They tried by every means to get custody of the infant but Badia clung stubbornly to her child.
She gave her an education in spite of the sundry characters going in and out of her apartment where she chose to sit at the door. Sometimes she sat in the doorway down in the street, generously exposed and totally indifferent to what people would say in a neighborhood where she counted as a rich woman, and where she ordered the men to run her errands. She carried on openly with one or another without a qualm. But Li-Li, she would get an education. She’d see her right through to the end. She’d make a lady of Li-Li.
Educated or not the European is an enticing creature, much more so when the heady wine of Egyptian blood runs through her veins. Although she received an education Li-Li did not learn. She was ambitious. Even as a child she was aware that she was a cut above others. Even when she served cheap drinks in seedy cabarets where she joined foreign troupes, or when she haunted the offices of second-rate impresarios. She never doubted that one day she’d be a great lady, that she’d know fame and glory and that the world would be at her feet.
“God be with you and light your way to the true path.”
“You light me the path and gain your reward from heaven.”
“The light is in you. It must come from your heart.”