Arabian Nights and Days (2 page)

T
ime gives a special knock inside and wakes him. He directs his gaze toward a window close to the bed and through it sees the city wrapped around in darkness. Sleep has stripped it of all movement and sound as it nestles in a silence replete with cosmic calm.

Separating himself from Umm Saad's warm body, he stepped onto the floor, where his feet sank into the downy texture of the Persian carpet. He stretched out his arm as he groped for where the candlestick stood and bumped into something solid and hard. Startled, he muttered, “What's this?”

A strange voice issued forth, a voice the like of which he had never heard: the voice of neither a human nor an animal. It robbed him of all sensation—it was as though it were sweeping throughout the whole city. The voice spoke angrily, “You trod on my head, you blind creature!”

He fell to the ground in fear. He was a man without the tiniest atom of valor: he excelled at nothing but buying and selling and bargaining.

“You trod on my head, you ignorant fellow,” said the voice.

“Who are you?” he said in a quaking voice.

“I am Qumqam.”

“Qumqam?”

“A genie from among the city's dwellers.”

Almost vanishing in terror, he was struck speechless.

“You hurt me and you must be punished.”

His tongue was incapable of putting up any defense.

“I heard you yesterday, you hypocrite,” Qumqam continued, “and you were saying that death is a debt we have to pay, so what are you doing pissing yourself with fear?”

“Have mercy on me!” he finally pleaded. “I am a family man.”

“My punishment will descend only on you.”

“Not for a single moment did I think of disturbing you.”

“What troublesome creatures you are! You don't stop yearning to enslave us in order to achieve your vile objectives. Have you not satisfied your greed by enslaving the weak among you?”

“I swear to you…”

“I have no faith in a merchant's oath,” he interrupted him.

“I ask mercy and plead pardon from you,” he said.

“You would make me do that?”

“Your big heart…” he said anxiously.

“Don't try to cheat me as you do your customers.”

“Do it for nothing, for the love of God.”

“There is no mercy without a price and no pardon without a price.”

He glimpsed a sudden ray of hope.

“I'll do as you want,” he said fervently.

“Really?”

“With all the strength I possess,” he said eagerly.

“Kill Ali al-Salouli,” he said with frightening calm.

The joy drowned in an unexpected defeat, like something brought at great risk from across the seas whose worthlessness has become apparent on inspection.

“Ali al-Salouli, the governor of our quarter?” he asked in horror.

“None other.”

“But he is a governor and lives in the guarded House of Happiness, while I am nothing but a merchant.”

“Then there is no mercy, no pardon,” he exclaimed.

“Sir, why don't you kill him yourself?”

“He has brought me under his power with black magic,” he said with exasperation, “and he makes use of me in accomplishing purposes that my conscience does not approve of.”

“But you are a force surpassing black magic.”

“We are nevertheless subject to specific laws. Stop arguing—you must either accept or refuse.”

“Have you no other wishes?” said Sanaan urgently. “I have plenty of money, also goods from India and China.”

“Don't waste time uselessly, you fool.”

In utter despair, he said, “I'm at your disposal.”

“Take care not to attempt to trick me.”

“I have resigned myself to my fate.”

“You will be in my grasp even if you were to take refuge in the mountains of Qaf at the ends of the world.”

At that, Sanaan felt a sharp pain in his arm. He let out a scream that tore at his depths.

Sanaan opened his eyes to the voice of Umm Saad saying, “What's made you sleep so late?” She lit the candle and he began to look about him in a daze. If it were a dream, why did it fill him more than wakefulness itself? He was so alive that he was terrified. Nevertheless he entertained thoughts of escape, and feelings of grateful calm took control of him. The world was brought back to its proper perspective after total ruin. How wonderful was the sweetness of life after the torture of hellfire!

“I take refuge in God from the accursed Devil,” he sighed.

Umm Saad looked at him as she tucked scattered locks of hair inside the kerchief round her head, sleep having affected the beauty of her face with a sallow hue. Intoxicated with the sensation of having made his escape, he said, “Praise be to God, Who has rescued me from grievous trouble.”

“May God protect us, O father of Fadil.”

“A terrible dream, Umm Saad.”

“God willing, all will be well.”

She led the way to the bathroom and lit a small lamp in the recess. Following her, he said, “I spent part of my night with a genie.”

“How is that, you being the God-fearing man you are?”

“I shall recount it to Sheikh Abdullah al-Balkhi. Go now in peace that I may make my ablutions.”

As he was doing so and washing his left forearm, he stopped, trembling all over.

“O my Lord!”

He began looking aghast at the wound, which was like a bite. It was no illusion that he was seeing, for blood had broken through where the fangs had penetrated the flesh.

“It is not possible.”

In terror he hurried off toward the kitchen. As she was lighting the oven, Umm Saad asked, “Have you made your ablutions?”

“Look,” he said, stretching out his arm.

“What has bitten you?” the woman gasped.

“I don't know.”

Overcome by anxiety, she said, “But you slept so well.”

“I don't know what happened.”

“Had it happened during the day…”

“It didn't happen during the day,” he interrupted her.

They exchanged an uneasy look fraught with suppressed thoughts.

“Tell me about the dream,” she said with dread.

“I told you it was a genie,” he said dejectedly. “It was a dream, though.”

Once again they exchanged glances and the pain of anxiety.

“Let it be a secret,” said Umm Saad warily.

He understood the secret of her fears that corresponded to his own, for if mention were made of the genie, he did not know what would happen to his reputation as a merchant on the morrow, nor to what the reputation of his daughter Husniya and his son Fadil would be exposed. The dream could bring about total ruin. Also, he was sure of nothing.

“A dream's a dream,” said Umm Saad, “and the secret of the wound is known to God alone.”

“This is what one must remind oneself,” he said in despair.

“The important thing now is for you to have it treated without delay, so go now to your friend Ibrahim the druggist.”

How could he arrive at the truth? He was so burdened with anxiety that he was enraged and boiled with anger. He felt his position going from bad to worse. All his feelings were charged with anger and resentment, while his nature deteriorated as though he were being created anew in a form that was at variance with his old deep-rooted gentleness. No longer could he put up with the woman's glances; he began to hate them, to loathe her very thoughts. He felt a desire to destroy everything that existed. Unable to control himself, he pierced her with a glance filled with hatred and resentment, as though it were she who was responsible for his plight. Turning his back on her, he went off.

“This is not the Sanaan of old,” she muttered.

He found Fadil and Husniya in the living room in a dim light that spilled out through the holes of the wooden latticework. Their faces were distraught at the way his excited voice had been raised. His anger increased and, very unlike himself, he shouted, “Get out of my sight!”

He closed the door of his room behind him and began examining his arm. Fadil boldly joined him.

“I trust you are all right, father,” he said anxiously.

“Leave me alone,” he said gruffly.

“Did a dog bite you?”

“Who said so?”

“My mother.”

He appreciated her wisdom in saying this and he agreed, but his mood did not improve.

“It's nothing. I'm fine, but leave me on my own.”

“You should go to the druggist.”

“I don't need anybody to tell me that,” he said with annoyance.

Outside, Fadil said to Husniya, “How changed father is!”

For the first time in his life, Sanaan al-Gamali left his house without performing his prayers. He went at once to the shop of Ibrahim the druggist, an old friend and neighbor in the commercial street. When the druggist saw his arm, he said in astonishment, “What sort of dog was this! But then there are so many stray dogs…”

He set about making a selection of herbs, saying, “I have a prescription that never fails.”

He boiled up the herbs until they deposited a sticky sediment. Having washed the wound with rose water, he covered it with the mixture, spreading it over with a wooden spatula, then bound up the arm with Damascene muslin, muttering, “May it be healed, God willing.”

At which, despite himself, Sanaan said, “Or let the Devil do what he may.”

Ibrahim the druggist looked quizzically into his friend's flushed face, amazed at how much he had changed.

“Don't allow a trifling wound to affect your gentle nature.”

With a melancholy face, Sanaan made off, saying, “Ibrahim, don't trust this world.”

How apprehensive he was! It was as though he had been washed in a potion of fiery peppers. The sun was harsh and hot, people's faces were glum.

Fadil had arrived at the shop before him and met him with a beaming smile which only increased his ill humor. He cursed the heat, despite his well-known acceptance of all kinds of weather. He greeted no one and scarcely returned a greeting. He was cheered by neither face nor word. He laughed at no joke and took no warning note at a funeral passing. No comely face brought him pleasure. What had happened? Fadil worked harder in order to intervene as far as possible between his father and the customers. More than one inquired of Fadil in a whisper, “What's up with your father today?”

The young man could only reply, “He's indisposed—may God show you no ill.”

It was not long before his condition was made known to the habitués of the Café of the Emirs. He made his way to them with a gloomy countenance and either sat in silence or engaged only in distracted conversation. He no longer made his amusing comments; quickly dispirited, he soon left the café.

“A wild dog bit him,” Ibrahim the druggist said.

And Galil the draper commented, “He's utterly lost to us.”

While Karam al-Aseel, the man with millions and the face of a monkey, said, “But his business is flourishing.”

And the doctor Abdul Qadir al-Maheeni said, “The value of money evaporates when you're ill.”

And Ugr the barber, the only one among those sitting on the floor who would sometimes thrust himself into the conversation of the upper-class customers, said philosophically, “What is a man? A bite from a dog or a fly's sting…”

But Fadil shouted at him, “My father's fine. It's only that he's indisposed—he'll be all right by daybreak.”

But he went deeper and deeper into a state that became difficult to control. Finally, one night he swallowed a crazy amount of dope and left the café full of energy and ready to brave the unknown. Disliking the idea of going home, he went stumbling around in the dark, driven on by crazed fantasies. He hoped for some action that might dispel his rebellious state of tension and relieve it of its torment. He brought to mind women from his family who were long dead and they appeared before him naked and in poses that were sexually suggestive and seductive, and he regretted not having had his way with a single one of them. He passed by the cul-de-sac of Sheikh Abdullah al-Balkhi and for an instant thought of visiting him and confiding to him what had occurred, but he
hurried on. In the light of a lamp hanging down from the top of the door of one of the houses he saw a young girl of ten going on her way, carrying a large metal bowl. He rushed toward her, blocking her way and inquiring, “Where are you going, little girl?”

“I'm going back to my mother,” she replied innocently.

He plunged into the darkness till he could see her no more.

“Come here,” he said, “and I'll show you something nice.”

He picked her up in his arms and the water from the pickles spilt over his silken garment. He took her under the stairway of the elementary school. The girl was puzzled by his strange tenderness and didn't feel at ease with him.

“My mother's waiting,” she said nervously.

But he had stirred her curiosity as much as her fears. His age, which reminded her of her father, induced in her a sort of trust, a trust in which an unknown disquiet was mixed with the anticipation of some extraordinary dream. She let out a wailing scream which tore apart his compassionate excitement and sent terrifying phantoms into his murky imagination. He quickly stifled her mouth with the trembling palm of his hand. A sudden return to his senses was like a slap in the face, as he came back to earth.

“Don't cry. Don't be frightened,” he whispered entreatingly.

Despair washed over him until it demolished the pillars on which the earth was supported. Out of total devastation he heard the tread of approaching footsteps. Quickly he grasped the thin neck in hands that were alien to him. Like a rapacious beast whose foot has slipped, he tumbled down into an abyss. He realized that he was finished and noticed that a voice was calling, “Baseema…Baseema, my girl.”