Arabian Nights and Days (12 page)

“Are you fleeing from some deed that angers God?” he asked her gently.

“I have never angered God in my life,” she said gently.

Her voice reminded him of Akraman and Husniya, and the tenderness of the earth was blended with the cravings of the sky in his heart.

“You must wait,” he told her amiably, “until daybreak, when God will in His mercy take charge of you.”

“Can I wait here?”

He gave a smile which she did not see and said, “The open air has been created for fugitives! Where are you going?”

“I want to get far away from the city.”

“But you are alone and perhaps beautiful.”

When she kept silent, he said, “Perhaps God will help you through me, if you so wish.”

“I want nothing except for you to make it possible for me to travel.”

“Can you swear by God that you are not leaving behind some harm you have done to a human being?”

Reassured, she said in a shaking voice, “It is I who am unjustly wronged. I left my home to kill myself, then was afraid that God would meet me in anger.”

“Why, daughter?”

When she burst into sobs, he called out to the heavens, “You are most knowing as to where to place Your mercy.”

“I am innocent and wronged.”

“I do not wish to intrude upon your heart's secret.”

“You are one of God's good servants and to you I'll divulge my secret,” she said, having decided to abandon herself. And she began to recount her story.

“Are you the person in the dream?” he interrupted her.

“How did you know that?” she exclaimed.

“I knew it from your partner at this same place, and after that I heard it from the town criers.”

“I don't follow you—do you know my partner in the dream?”

“The town criers are repeating his name everywhere—it is Nur al-Din the perfume-seller.”

“The town criers?” she said as though addressing herself. “Behind them is the sultan! How strange! Nur al-Din…Nur al-Din…But I am married—or rather dead.”

When she had completed her story, the man said, “Go to your husband!”

“Death is easier,” she exclaimed insistently.

“Go to your husband Nur al-Din!”

“But I am a lawful wife to Karam al-Aseel!”

“Go to Nur al-Din and let the dawn come up.”

“What do I see?” said Sakhrabout furiously. “Things are proceeding toward a happy solution.”

Concealing her feelings of bitterness, Zarmabaha said, “Wait, the way is still strewn with thorns.”

They spotted Sahloul under the tree hurrying along in the darkness.

“An unforeseen assignment, angel?” Sakhrabout asked himself.

“Let's hope it's for us rather than against us,” said Zarmabaha.

Sahloul went on his way without paying them any heed.

Early in the morning Nur al-Din left his house to open his shop. By his shop he found a young veiled girl, who seemed to be waiting. She wore a dress of Damascene silk that bespoke lofty origins. She looked at him with interest, then gave a deep sigh. Amazed at her, he felt his heart throb, revealing obscure emotions. She soon unveiled her radiant face, while staring at him with submissive ardor. An age passed as, outside all existence, they were immersed in a dream that breathed passionate magic. Spring breezes blew and filled them with the fragrance of the sky's blue. Their happiness made them forget the memories of torment and confusion. Peace came down to earth and in a movement as spontaneous as the singing of birds they clasped hands.

“Human and alive!” he exclaimed. “Reality and not a dream, here at this moment!”

“Yes,” she whispered in a trembling voice. “You, Nur al-Din—and I, Dunyazad!”

“What act of mercy led you to where I was?”

The words flowed from her mouth as she told him of the tragedy and the way it had been resolved.

“We should have been assured,” he said deliriously, “that the miracle was not happening to no avail.”

“But thunder is stronger than the cooing of pigeons.”

“Together and forever,” he said finally.

“It was fated.”

“Let's go to the sultan.”

The flame of her fervor was extinguished, “But I'm married to Karam al-Aseel,” she said.

“The sultan's promise is stronger.”

“False steps, too, possess their own power.”

But he was in an utter state of intoxication.

The sultan's council was held at noon and was attended by the eminent men of state. Before the throne stood Nur al-Din, seller of perfumes, and Dunyazad, sister of the sultana.

“We have been taken unawares by wondrous and inscrutable happenings,” said the sultan, scowling. “The days and nights have taught us to pay attention to such wonders and to knock at the door of the inscrutable so that it may open wide and reveal light. This wondrous happening, disguised as a dream, has invaded my very home.”

As the sultan fell silent, the heart of Dandan his minister trembled and the faces of Dunyazad and Nur al-Din paled. No doubt conflicting forces strove for ascendancy in the sultan's heart. The cruel demon had been bewitched by the stories, yet they had not altered his quintessence. Then, with a face more sullen, he said, “But the sultan's promise is valid!”

The feeling of distress left the hearts of many and faces brightened with the light of hope. Then the mufti, official expounder of the law, said, “But the lady Dunyazad is already married at law.”

“Bring Karam al-Aseel,” the sultan ordered Dandan.

Then rose Yusuf al-Tahir, governor of the ancient quarter.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “Karam al-Aseel was found dead last night not far from his home.”

The news struck at people's hearts, shaking them like an earthquake, and quickly brought to mind the violent deaths of the governors and leading citizens. Bayumi al-Armal, the chief of police in the quarter, rose to his feet and said, “Our men, after a long search, have found the escaped madman who was wandering aimlessly about at night in the quarter and they have arrested him.”

“Are you accusing him of killing al-Aseel?” asked the sultan.

“He himself admits, proudly and boastfully, that it was he who committed all the crimes.”

“Was he not the man who insisted he was Gamasa al-Bulti?”

“The very same, and he is still insistent.”

Here Yusuf al-Tahir said, “We would ask Your Majesty's permission to behead him, which is safer than returning him to the madhouse.”

“My vizier Dandan told me that the tunnel by which he made his escape could not have been made by human beings.”

“That is so, Your Majesty,” admitted Bayumi al-Armal.

The sultan hesitated for so long that his close companions felt that for the first time in his life he was being assailed by fear. When Dandan realized this, he said adroitly, “He's nothing but a madman, Your Majesty, yet he has a secret which is not to be underrated, so let him go—there is no kingdom that does not have a handful of the likes of him who are in divine care. I believe he should be released and that a search should be made for the killer among the Shiites and the Kharijites.”

“You have given good advice, Dandan,” said the sultan, inwardly thanking his vizier for his acumen. Then he looked at Dunyazad and Nur al-Din and said, “You have the promise, so get married. Dunyazad shall have all that she requires from the treasury.”

The assembly was enveloped in an air of peace and happiness.

M
inds were confused by the death of Karam al-Aseel, but Ugr the barber was preoccupied with himself to the exclusion of the world and what it contained. In ordinary circumstances nothing distracted him from what was happening, for he was a deeply-rooted minder of other people's business, making mountains out of molehills and regarded in his shop as a spinner of tales before being a barber, deriving interest and pleasure from news and exaggerated rumors. However, a smile had restored his natural disposition, and hopes that had been long suppressed sprang up anew.

He was short and thin with bright eyes and of a dark brown complexion, not originally devoid of charm. He harbored an avidity as no one else did. The woman with the smile was middle-aged, older than he by a year or two. Why does she smile to a barber like him? Perhaps she liked men. Perhaps she was tempting him with femininity and liberality, for no one had any doubts about Ugr's poverty.

O Lord, how he loved women! Were it not for his poverty, Fattouha would not have remained his sole wife during all that life of his. Perhaps he dreamt of women as his adolescent son Aladdin did, dreamt
too of affluence, food, and drink. She had persisted in passing by in front of his shop for days on end until he had gone up to her and she had made an appointment with him by the sultan's school just after sunset. He had waited, saying to himself, “Your turn for some luck has come, Ugr.” For the first time he speaks appreciatively of luck and prostrates himself in prayer; for the first time he welcomes the coming of the setting of the sun; for the first time he feels at ease with the street as he prances about. The shops are closing their doors as he is filled with excitement and expectation.

When the street was empty, or almost so, the madman appeared in ample gown and flowing beard; unexpectedly he had appeared to pierce the night with his secrets, he who was always volunteering that he had committed great crimes and who claimed that he was Gamasa al-Bulti, the conqueror of death, who had invaded the sultan's stone heart and who had been set free. Ugr liked him like some mysterious plaything but he did not welcome his appearance at this fateful hour. Just as he feared, the madman approached, until he was standing right in front of him.

“Go home,” he said in his loud voice, “for no one goes out at night unless he has an aim.”

Overcoming his feeling of tension, Ugr laughed and said to him, “The hair on your head grows like a balkh tree, while your beard extends downward and outward like a curtain. Why don't you pay me a visit in my shop so that I can give you a good trim?”

“Your brain is rotted so you do not obey me,” he chided him.

“What a delightful madman you are!”

“An ignorant fellow from ignorant progeny!” he said, passing on his way.

He remained alone for no more than a minute when the woman arrived.

A burning experience in which the unknown was held in contempt. After twenty years of daily married life, it led him in darkness diluted by the lanterns on doorways to an almost isolated house with a garden
outside the walls. He believed that the person leading him was someone of rank, wealth, and a dissolute life, and he was increasingly happy about this. As he plunged into a dark place, fragrant smells wafted to him and he realized it was the garden. Then he found himself in a hallway lit by lamps in the corners, in the midst of which was a sumptuous couch and a sitting area of cushions arranged round a table heaped with food and drink. The woman left, then returned, unveiled and in a silken robe; she was compactly built with handsome features, older than he had reckoned but wantonly coquettish. His gaze moved across the woman, the food, and the drink and he said to himself, “Look at how dreams are fulfilled.”

“Our night,” he said, girding himself for action, “has no equal.”

She filled two glasses and said, laughing, “Only an ingrate denies favors.”

She clapped her hands and a slave-girl in her twenties came bearing a lute. She was so like the woman as to be her sister, though excelling her by her youth.

“Play to us,” said the woman. “Happiness must be made complete.”

The drink played with their minds, the lute with their hearts. With Ugr's accustomed abandon he applied himself to the drink, the food, and the woman. Many times he asked himself when their acquaintance would be consummated. But what did that matter? Let him beware of haste and play his part as he should. He did not doubt that he was in the presence of a loose woman—but a loose woman who was generous, who gave and did not exploit. It was a dream that did him no harm, except that it did not come true.

She set aside for him every Monday. He would have liked more, but she disregarded this. He advised himself to be content. She avoided indicating who she was and he became convinced that she was from a family of distinction. Why did she not settle down in a palace with some eminent person? Perhaps the reason was debauchery or vanity, so which of these
should he take pleasure in? As for the young slave-girl, she was indisputably her sister—doubtless immersed in corruption, and wholly obedient and compliant to the woman, like some female attendant. She was enticing, as the two of them exchanged furtive glances. He would assuredly fall into the snare of the younger as he had done into that of the older, and it would not take too long. It was a party redolent with passion and betrayal, yet he was infinitely wary about the woman. He loved the food and the drink in the same way as he loved the woman, and with the passage of time he loved the food and the drink more. He would wildly and unashamedly launch himself at the table so that he became an amusing spectacle for the two women. Nevertheless he was careful lest his desire for the young slave-girl should compromise him, while she herself encouraged him, though hiding behind an excess of wariness. At the Café of the Emirs he felt himself to be of a higher order than the notables and happier than Yusuf al-Tahir. He felt he was another Shahriyar.

He went one night and found no one there but the young slave-girl. The hall was the same as ever but the table was empty. He was perplexed but said nothing.

“She's ill and has charged me with making her excuses,” the slave-girl said. His heart throbbed, his eyes sparkled and he smiled.

“I must hurry back quickly,” she said.

“She's very trusting!” he said. He stepped forward and took her in his arms.

“Who knows?” she said without showing any real resistance.

“But the opportunity will not slip from our hands.”

“What an adventure!”

“You're free, like her—you are doubtless her sister.”

She removed herself gently from him and brought food and drink. They both set about the drink liberally so as to disperse the atmosphere of tension and speculation. They dissolved into a burning passion.
Mounting the summit of provocation, they withdrew from mere existence.

He woke early. He rose on unsteady feet with a heavy head. He drew the curtain and daylight flooded in. His mind turned to memories of the previous night. A gasp escaped him and his eyes goggled as he saw the beautiful young slave-girl butchered. Her blood had drained away completely as death lodged itself in her. When? Who? How? Should he flee? How heavy his head was! It was as though he had drunk some narcotic in his wine. The charge lay over his head. He thought quickly, illogically: the garden, burying the corpse, removing the traces of blood. Was there anyone in the house observing him? He must act or give himself up to the fates. There was no time for reflection. The whole structure had collapsed and there was no recalling the past. The specter of the other woman was constantly with him.

When he gave the place a final look, he saw a necklace with a diamond that had fallen under the bed. He gathered it up, not knowing what to do with it. He thrust it into his pocket and went out stealthily.

“It will be a miracle if I escape,” he told himself.

Ugr went on groping about in the prison cell of his enduring torment. The crime beleaguered him and spread its convulsive grip to suffocate him. “O Lord, I pledge myself to repent if You save me.”

His son Aladdin saw him and was delighted at his return, while Fattouha, his wife, bared her teeth.

“I was overcome by sleep in a hashish den,” he said, showing little concern.

She swore at him: life between them was full of ups and downs. He opened his shop later than usual and received the heads and beards with a mind that was distracted and wandering in the valleys of terror. There was some third person who was without doubt the murderer. But why had the young girl been killed? Out of jealousy? The jealousy of some unknown man, or the jealousy of a woman? Always he was pursued by the form of the elder sister: strong, dissolute, and capable of committing
atrocious crimes. Would she discover the body? Did anyone know he had crept out at night? Would he one day be led off to the executioner to be beheaded? “O Lord, I pledge myself to repent if You save me.” He thought for several moments about taking flight. The necklace that was lodged over his stomach would bring fortune, but to offer it for sale would be to bring about his downfall. No, he had not murdered and he would not flee, and divine providence was not sleeping. Yes, divine providence was not asleep, but who was this? He looked in dejection at the madman as he entered the shop and sat down on the ground without ceremony, eating an apricot. Ugr was trimming the beard of the doctor Abdul Qadir al-Maheeni.

“What has brought you so unusually during daytime?” he asked the madman.

“Your daytime has become night, Ugr,” said the madman plainly.

“I take refuge in God from such evil words.”

“Don't mislead us, man, for madness is the acme of intelligence,” said the doctor, laughing.

“I was once a policeman,” said the madman.

“You still insist you are Gamasa al-Bulti?”

“And the policeman, when he turns to God, does not give up his old profession.”

“Spare me your madness,” said Ugr testily, “for I am not in a good mood.”

“Only the likes of you,” said the madman gently, “call upon me, you ignorant one.”

The doctor laughed loudly and said, “He is usually called in when our knowledge fails to do the job.”

The madman rose to his feet and went off, saying, “God is the refuge of the living and the dead and of the living-dead.”

When the door had closed behind him, Ugr said to the doctor, “My heart now tells me that this madman is a dangerous killer.”

Abdul Qadir al-Maheeni muttered, “How many killers there are, Ugr!”

Ugr felt that the madman knew his secret. Could it be that he had butchered the beautiful girl? When, O Lord of the Heavens and the Earth, would his affliction be removed?

Monday night came—the appointment with Gulnar that gave warning of mysterious possibilities. If he went, he would be going to hellfire. And if he did not go, evidence would be put forward about a crime he did not commit. He went to the house of the crime and of terror. He submitted himself to the fates, his body trembling with fright. He hid the garden from existence by averting his gaze. As for the head that had been torn from the beautiful body, it stayed with him step by step. He saw Gulnar and the table and took in the first breath of summer weather heavy with humidity. He should curb his confus on lest it give him away. He must perform the act of love on the bed of blood. The body seemed to fill the place and to obscure the voracious woman. How sweet was escape! He applied himself to the drink in despair. The woman was calm and smiling. Should he ask about Zahriyar or should he wait? Which would arouse more suspicion? But it was Gulnar herself who broached the subject with the inquiry “Where is Zahriyar?”

“Did she not come with you?” he inquired.

She stared at him in confusion as she drank wish him, then said, “I sent her to you with my excuses.”

“We exchanged a couple of words and then parted,” he said with pounding heart.

“She has disappeared as though into thin air. Those who have been diligently searching for her have given up. The house is up in arms.”

He clapped his hands together in a gesture of despair and muttered, “A truly extraordinary thing to happen—is there any reason for her disappearing?”

“I can't imagine any! The house is up in arms.”

“What house, Gulnar?”

“Our house, Ugr. Do you think we have no family?”

“And this house, what is it?”

“It's only a place to relax in—a place we have set apart for entertainment.”

He hesitated, then asked, his head heavy, though not with elation, “Who are your family, Gulnar?”

“Some people,” she said, smiling. “What are they to you?”

He became more deeply immersed in his worries and inquired sadly, “I wonder where you are, Zahriyar?”

“The news has doubtless saddened you?”

“I am only human, Gulnar,” he said dejectedly.

“And a good human, Ugr,” she said, playing with his beard.

Drunk with wine, she drew close to him. Depression closed in around him. A lack of appetite for the food and drink came over him and the wells of passion dried up. He was put off by the woman because he felt frightened of her. It was a long and heavy nightmare which must come to an end.

On the next appointment he went as though going to the executioner's leather mat, but no one answered his knock at the door. When it was not opened to him, he felt at ease for the first time since his discovery of the crime. Perhaps her family had at last become aware of her secret behavior. Perhaps she was avoiding him. Perhaps she had joined her sister. Whatever had happened to her, a not inconsiderable part of his torment had ended. He would not again approach the scene of the crime. He would fight against the color of blood that pursued him and would not fail to remind himself that he had not, during the whole of his lifetime, ever committed a murder. He wasn't even able to kill a chicken. The memories of the food and drink and of making love all withdrew themselves, and he told his defeated self that maybe they had never been a reality. Every day that passed made him a gift of peace of mind. Fear is the due of the guilty, not of the innocent. And he was, without doubt, innocent. Whenever peace of mind permeated him, life gained vitality with suppressed desire and he went back to recollecting the nights of lovemaking and food, and he would sigh nostalgically. He would remember, too, the valuable necklace that lay above his stomach
and which he could not offer for sale, and he would feel sad. He was carrying about him a futile fortune, and he had had an unforgettable experience with happiness, and greed and lascivious yearnings would well up in him and he would ask in confusion, “Isn't it best for me to repent?”