Arabian Nights and Days (20 page)

“You're making fun of me,” shouted Fadil.

“Not at all. I am urging you to kill your enemies before they kill you.”

“Let me alone,” he said with loathing.

Disturbing events occurred: a strange disease attacked, almost at one and the same time, two distinguished and beautiful women, Qamar al-Attar and Qut al-Quloub the wife of Suleiman al-Zeini. Neither the sincere devotion nor the experience of Abdul Qadir al-Maheeni was of any use in saving them. With their deaths the doctor realized he had a secret worry he did not know how to ignore. Should he keep silent to protect the reputation of his friends? Should he be afraid that his silence might be covering up some crime or criminal? He thought for a long time, then went off to see Khalil Faris the chief of police.

“I shall tell you of my concern in the hope that God may guide us to the right path,” he said. He gave a deep sigh, then went on: “It was not an illness that afflicted the sister of Hasan al-Attar and Qut al-Quloub. It is clear to me that they both died of a poison that slowly killed them!”

“Suicide?” muttered the chief of police with concern. “But why? And why should anyone want to murder them?”

“Before each one died she uttered the name of Fadil Sanaan with terror and abhorrence.”

The man nodded his head with growing interest and the doctor said, “The substance of what I understood was that they had both dreamt that night that he had assaulted them, then it became clear to them that there were certain traces left behind that showed conclusively that the dream had been a reality.”

“This is astounding. Had he drugged them?”

“I don't know.”

“Where did the dream occur?”

“In their own beds in their own homes.”

“This is truly astounding. How did he steal into their houses? And how did he drug them so that he could have his way with them? Had he accomplices in both houses?”

“I don't know.”

“Have you broached the subject with Hasan and al-Zeini?”

“I hadn't the courage to do so.”

“What do you know of Fadil Sanaan?”

“A blameless young man.”

“There was a suspicion, which has not as yet been supported by any evidence, that he is a Kharijite.”

“I know nothing about that.”

“I shall arrest him immediately,” said the chief of police resolutely, “and shall interrogate him closely.”

“I trust that your investigation will be carried out in secret so as to spare the reputations of the two women.”

With a shrug Khalil Faris said, “Uncovering the truth is my primary concern.”

Fadil was arrested and immediately taken off to prison. The governor of the quarter, Abbas al-Khaligi, interested himself in the matter and asked to see Hasan al-Attar and Suleiman al-Zeini and surprised them with the secret that the doctor had been loath to divulge. It was like a violent blow aimed at their heads, death itself being easier to bear. Al-Khaligi
then ordered that Fadil Sanaan should be brought from prison so that he himself might question him. Khalil Faris, however, came to him on his own, saying with great embarrassment, “The criminal has escaped—there is no sign of him in the prison.”

The governor stormed and raged and hurled rebuke and accusations at the chief of police.

“His escape is a mystery,” the man said with utter helplessness. “It is as though it were an act of black magic.”

“It's more like a scandal that will rock the very foundations of confidence.”

The plainclothesmen spread abroad like locusts. Akraman the wife of Fadil Sanaan, Husniya his sister, and Umm Saad his mother were brought in. Their interrogation revealed nothing.

“My husband,” said Akraman weeping, “is the noblest of men and I do not believe a single word said against him.”

Fadil Sanaan realized that he had become as good as dead—after today he could have no life other than under the cap, the life of some accursed spirit wandering in the darkness, a spirit who could move only in the spheres of frivolous pastimes or evil, deprived of repentance or of doing good; he had become a Satan who was damned. As he groaned in his desolation the owner of the cap appeared before him.

“Perhaps you are in need of me?” he asked.

Fadil glared at him balefully and the other said to him in friendly fashion, “There is no limit to your authority and you will not lack for anything.”

“It is a state of nonbeing!” he exclaimed.

“Wipe out old notions and be aware of your great luck,” he said mockingly.

“Loneliness. Loneliness and darkness. Wife, sister, and mother are lost to me, as are my friends.”

“Listen to the advice of someone of experience,” the other said
quietly. “It is in your power to enjoy every day with some event that will rock mankind.”

Mysterious events swept over the quarter and made people forget the case and the criminal who had escaped. A man of noble birth was pushed off his mule and fell to the ground. A stone struck the head of Sami Shukri the private secretary, while surrounded by his guard, and split it open. Priceless jewels disappeared from the governor's house. A fire broke out in the lumber warehouse. Harassment of women in the marketplaces increased. Terror pursued the high and the low, while all the time Fadil Sanaan rushed headlong on his rugged path, intoxicated by despair and madness.

The governor Abbas al-Khaligi met up with Sheikh Abdullah al-Balkhi and with the doctor Abdul Qadir al-Maheeni and the mufti. He said to them, “You are the elite of our quarter and I want to seek guidance from your opinions in what is occurring. What is your diagnosis and what treatment do you suggest?”

“It is no more than a gang of evil persons operating with cunning and resourcefulness,” said the doctor, “and we are in need of increased vigilance where security is concerned.”

He thought for a while and then continued, “We are also in need of revising the distribution of the alms tax and charity.”

“I believe,” said the governor, “that the problem is more serious than you suppose. What is the opinion of Sheikh Abdullah?”

The man answered tersely, “We lack true faith.”

“But the people are believers.”

“Not at all,” he said sadly. “True faith is rarer than the unicorn.”

At this the mufti said in a harsh voice, “There is someone who is practicing black magic against us. I accuse no one but the Shiites and the Kharijites.”

Everyone who was under any sort of suspicion was taken off to the prisons. Many homes were shaken by doubts. For the first time Fadil Sanaan awoke from his state of despair. He was astonished at himself and wondered whether he still had in his heart any room for contemplation and regret. Old memories revived in him, like breezes blowing on a blazing fire, and he began thinking about directing his frivolous action in some new direction. However, the owner of the cap appeared to him with a warning look and inquired, “Are you not yet cured of your old disease?”

Though overcome by rage, he controlled himself humbly and said, “To effect the escape of these men would be the height of frivolity.”

“Remember our agreement.”

“What good is there behind rescuing the enemies of religion?” he inquired sharply.

“They are in your opinion the leaders, and you are merely one of them, so don't try to play games with me.”

“Let me do what I want,” he said with determination and hope. “Then after that I'll do what you like.”

The cap was then torn from his head and he assumed corporeal form amid the crush of passersby in Shooting Square. He was scared at the sudden change that had occurred, but before he could recover from his terror the other had replaced the cap on his head, saying, “Stick to our pledge so that I may continue to treat you in the same manner.”

He did not have the good fortune to escape. A feeling of bitterness took hold of him. He wondered how he could save his brothers and comrades. He was choked by the steel grip which enwrapped him. He was both the slave of the cap and its owner, as well as the prisoner of darkness and nothingness. No, he did not have the good fortune to escape and
was ashamed to do so. Even despair seemed beyond him: however many stupidities he committed they were unable to pluck out its old tunes from his heart. He yearned to resurrect the old Fadil at any price. Yes, the old Fadil was over and done with, but along the way there was still room for action. From the depths of the darkness there was a gleam of light. For the first time in ages his spirit was refreshed as he charged his willpower with fresh life. His courage burst forth in the shape of mounting aspirations. A wave of challenging scorn raised it above considerations of life and death and he found himself gazing from on top of a peak to horizons of promise; horizons that promised a noble death. Thus would Fadil Sanaan be restored, be it even as a lifeless corpse.

Without hesitation he set off with new resolve toward the governor's house. The madman passed by him, repeating the words “There is no god but God. He brings to life and makes to die, and He is capable of everything.”

He had reached an extreme of intoxication and recklessness and was not frightened when the owner of the cap appeared to him.

“Keep away from me,” he said, and he seized the cap from his head and threw it into the other's face with the words “Do what you like.”

“They'll tear you to pieces.”

“I know my destiny better than you do.”

“You will regret when regret will be of no use.”

“I am stronger than you,” he shouted.

Fadil expected fearfully that he would strike him, but he vanished as though vanquished.

The trial of Fadil Sanaan provoked more speculation than any previous one. His confessions burst upon the city like a storm. As the elite still considered him one of their sons, and because the common folk saw him as one of theirs, minds and hearts were utterly confused.

Punishment Square received a steady flow of men and women of all classes. Whispers of pity mingled with gloating shouts, while the moaning of the rebab mixed with the boisterous revelry of the drunk.
When the young man was seen from afar all eyes strained toward him. He approached in the midst of his guards with firm step, a calm face, and humble resignation. In front of the leather execution mat memories surged over him in a single wave of blazing light. The faces of Akraman, al-Balkhi, Gamasa al-Bulti, Abdullah the porter, and the madman came and went before him. Love and adventure, propaganda leaflets and the thousands of meetings held in darkness in underground cellars and out-of-the-way places—all were welded together in his mind. The cap and its owner were dispersed like some stumbling step he had taken. Finally, his tragic triumph was revealed, drawing with it Shabeeb Rama the executioner. He met it in a matter of seconds with extraordinary power and startling speed; he refused with disdain to show distress and faced his destiny with cool self-possession, seeing beyond death a dazzling brilliance. But he also saw one of the signposts of the other world in the form of Master Sahloul the bric-a-brac merchant. As he recovered from his astonishment at seeing him, he asked, “And what brought you, master?”

“I was brought by that which brought you,” he replied.

“You are the Angel of Death!” Fadil exclaimed in even greater surprise.

But Sahloul did not reply.

“I want justice,” Fadil said brusquely.

“God does what He wishes,” said Sahloul quietly.

N
othing surpassed his outward merriment except his inner apprehensions. His earnings were meager and his wife Firdaus al-Urra was greedy, covetous, and ill-tempered, a woman of strength and violence. His life was hell, divided between the daily toil and marriage. Not a day went by without his being subjected to blows and curses as he trembled before her, frightened and humiliated. He hoped for the strength with which to divorce her and would dream of her dying; he would have liked to flee, but how and where to? He told himself that he was a prisoner, just as Fadil Sanaan had been the prisoner of the Devil. Perhaps, as with him, he had no escape except through death.

One night he swallowed an excess of narcotics and went off to the Café of the Emirs with the world not big enough to contain his feeling of well-being. He looked into the faces of his companions and said in a voice that was heard by all the customers, “I'll tell you a secret that shouldn't be hidden from you.”

Ugr the barber was about to make fun of him but he remembered his own sadness and abstained.

“I'll tell you the truth,” went on Ma'rouf. “I've found Solomon's ring.”

“Show some sense in front of your superiors, you ass,” Shamloul the hunchback called out to him.

“It seems you've made good use of it,” Ibrahim the water-carrier said to him. “Where are the palaces and servants? Where's the pomp and splendor?”

“Were it not for my fear of God,” he said, “I would have done what would never occur to human minds!”

“Give us one example so that we may believe you,” Ragab the porter said.

“That's easy!”

“Fine—rise up toward the sky, then come down safely.”

“O ring of Solomon, raise me up to the sky,” said Ma'rouf in a whisper.

At this Suleiman al-Zeini shouted, “Stop muttering rubbish.”

But suddenly he fell silent. Ma'rouf himself was swept by a strange sense of terror. He felt a power dragging him from where he was sitting; slowly and steadily he found himself rising up into the air. Then all the customers were standing up in awe. Moving toward the door of the café, he went through it, shrieking, “Help me,” then continued upward till he disappeared into the darkness of the winter night. The customers all gathered in the street in front of the café with people shouting out about the extraordinary happening. The news of it spread like the sun's rays on a summer day. Then, ever so slowly, he came down until his form appeared in the darkness and he returned to where he had been sitting, though in an indescribable state of fright and exhaustion. Everyone, high and low, stared at him and he was bombarded with questions:

“Where did you find the ring?”

“When did you find it?”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Describe the genie to us.”

“When will you make your hopes come true?”

“Don't forget your friends,” Ugr said.

“And your poor comrades,” Ibrahim the water-carrier called out.

“Make things as they should be,” said Ragab the porter.

“Forget not God, for He is the Sovereign Power.”

He understood nothing of what was said and did not know how what had happened had come about. What secret had he taken possession of? What miracle had been achieved at his hands? Should he confess the truth to them? An instinctive wariness made him keep quiet. He wanted to be on his own, to get back his breath, to think things over. He rose from where he was sitting without saying a word, with several voices protesting, “Don't leave us in bewilderment. Say something to satisfy our curiosity.”

Without a glance at anyone, he left the café.

He went toward his house in a procession of men and women who filled the street. They vied with each other to get near him; some of them fell and others were trodden underfoot.

“Get away,” he shouted at them, “or I'll send you to the next world.”

In less than a minute they had all dispersed in frightened disarray until their voices were lost and he found no one before him but Firdaus al-Urra, his wife, waiting for him in front of the door, a lamp in her hand.

“He gives dominion to whom He wants,” she was saying.

For the first time in ages she was smiling at him. He glared at her and gave her a slap that rang out in the silence of the night.

“You are divorced!” he shouted at her. “Go to hell.”

“You enslave me with your poverty and throw me out as soon as good fortune comes.”

“If you don't go immediately, the genie will carry you off to the valley of the jinn.”

The woman screamed out in alarm and rushed away. He also smiled serenely for the first time in ages as he entered his home, which consisted of no more than a room and a corridor.

What is the meaning of this, Ma'rouf? Is it a dream or reality? Has something mysterious truly happened to you? He looked around him in the almost bare room and muttered cautiously, “O ring of Solomon, raise me up one arm's length above the ground.”

He waited anxiously, but nothing happened. He was downcast at his failure. Did I not soar into the air? Did not the people of the quarter witness it? Had not al-Urra been defeated for the very first time?

“O ring of Solomon,” he said from a wounded heart, “bring me a dish of green wheat and pigeon.”

All he saw was a beetle making its way at the edge of the worn rug. He looked long at it, then burst into sobs.

His bitter frustration was interred deeply within him. He made of it a hidden secret, erecting a barrier between it and his tongue. He told himself that he should allow things to proceed as God willed. Should he not, though, continue to go to his shop to repair shoes, slippers, and sandals? Would people be able to stomach such behavior from someone who owned Solomon's ring? And if he did not do so, would he be giving himself over to death by starvation? However, he happened to meet Khalil Faris the chief of police at the gate to his alley, who seemed to have been waiting for him. Faris greeted him with an unusually friendly smile and his intelligence told him that people were looking at him in the light of being the owner of Solomon's ring. His heart beat with a new hope and he was determined to play his role with due skill until God should cast the die for him.

“May God make your morning a happy one, Ma'rouf,” Faris said amiably.

“And may He grant you such a morning, O chief of police,” he said with an aloofness that astonished him. He spoke with the
confidence of someone possessing power that no human being could aspire to.

“The governor of the quarter would like to meet you,” said the man.

“With great pleasure,” Ma'rouf said indifferently. “Where?”

“Wherever you like.”

You groveling cowards! “In his house,” he said, “as is only right and proper.”

“You will receive due attention and protection,” Faris assured him.

“I have nothing to fear from any power on earth!” he said with a contemptuous laugh.

Concealing displeasure—and perhaps fear—Khalil Faris said, “We shall be waiting for you at noon.”

He saw from the great attention people paid him that there might soon be a fresh gathering around him, so he returned to his humble dwelling. He saw Ugr the barber, who informed him that he had become the talk not merely of the quarter but of the city and that the miracle he had performed had shaken the sultan himself. Knowing of the imminent meeting between him and the governor, Ugr said, “Don't worry about anyone, for you are the most powerful man in the world. People are now divided—there are those who fear your power because they wish to retain their own might, and those who hope that it will prove to be a protection for their weakness.”

Hiding his sorrow with a smile, Ma'rouf said, “Remember, Ugr, that I am one of God's obedient servants.”

His friend wished him victory and success.

Waiting for him in the reception hall were Abbas al-Khaligi the governor, Sami Shukri the private secretary, and Khalil Faris the chief of
police, as well as the mufti and a group of leading citizens. Though they regarded his ragged clothes with astonishment, the governor invited him to sit down by his side and greeted him warmly. He sat down confidently, a target for glances burning with curiosity.

“I have learned that you possess Solomon's ring,” said the governor.

“I am prepared,” he said confidentially and in a slightly threatening tone, “to convince anyone who has any doubt in his heart.”

To which the governor said, “In fact I wanted to know—within the scope of my official responsibility—how it was that you came into possession of it.”

“I am not permitted to reveal that secret.”

“As you think best. The fact that you have honored my house by coming here gives proof of your confidence in me, for which praise be to God.”

“The truth is that it has nothing to do with my confidence in you, for neither you nor anyone else can harm me,” he said craftily.

The governor bowed his head to show agreement and to hide his feelings at the same time. “I and my colleagues,” he said, “have thought that it is our duty to exchange views with you. God raises whom He will and humbles whom He will, but it is demanded of us that we worship Him in all circumstances.”

“It is more appropriate for you to direct your words to yourself and your colleagues,” said Ma'rouf boldly.

The governor's face flushed. “It is true that we took over power following bitter events, but we have been committed to the law since then.”

“The proof is in the ending.”

“No one will experience from us other than what is pleasing. Let His Majesty Sultan Shahriyar be an exemplar for us.”

“It is not to be denied that he opened a new page, even if he has not as yet attained the hoped-for perfection.”

“Perfection is with God alone.”

The governor looked toward the mufti, who said, “I have a word for you, Ma'rouf, that I hope you will accept from a man who fears none but God. God puts His servants to the test in good times and bad, and
He is always and ever the most powerful. He brings the strong to trial through his strength, just as He brings the weak to trial through his weakness. Others have come into possession of Solomon's ring before you, and it was a curse on them. May your possession of it be an example to the believers and a warning to the polytheists.”

Ma'rouf smiled, puffed up with the power of someone in command of the situation.

“Listen, you men of eminence,” he said, “it is indeed fortunate that Solomon's ring should fall to the lot of a believing man who has the name of God on his lips morning and evening. It is a power which yours cannot prevail against, but I keep it for times of necessity. It is within my ability to order the ring to construct palaces, to fit out armies, and to gain control of the sultanate, but I have resolved to follow another path.”

The assembled group breathed a sigh of relief for the first time and words of praise were showered upon Ma'rouf from every side. At which, with throbbing heart, he said, “But I should not neglect to benefit from a blessing that God has accorded me.”

They all gazed at him expectantly. “I require immediately,” he said, “a thousand dinars with which to improve my state of affairs.”

“I shall check the account of money that is at my disposal,” said the governor with relief. “If it is not sufficient I shall seek assistance from His Majesty the Sultan.”

Ma'rouf obtained the money he wanted and the leading citizens loaded him with gifts. He bought a palace, charging the furnishing of it to Master Sahloul, who made of it a veritable museum. He married Husniya Sanaan, the sister of Fadil. He made Ugr the barber, Ibrahim the water-carrier, and Ragab the porter his close companions and showered the poor with his generosity. He induced the governor to provide for their livelihood and to show them care and respect so that smiling faces replaced those once lined by hardship. They came to love life as they loved Paradise.

One day Ma'rouf was asked to meet the sultan Shahriyar. He went to him muttering, “There is no god but God” and “There is no strength or power except through God,” hoping he would come to no harm. The sultan met him in his winter palace, in what was known as the Coral Reception Hall. He assessed him quietly, then said, “Welcome to you, Ma'rouf. I have heard with my own ears during my night excursions the praise of God's servants for you, and this has filled me with a desire to see you.”

Overcoming the beating of his heart, Ma'rouf said, “For me the blessing of this meeting is more precious than Solomon's ring itself, Your Majesty.”

“A noble sentiment from a noble man.”

Ma'rouf lowered his head, while all the time wondering what he would do were the sultan to demand a miracle. Would you in that event, Ma'rouf, depart from the palace to the leather mat of execution?

“How did you come across the ring, Ma'rouf?” inquired the sultan.

“I have pledged myself to keep that a secret, Your Majesty,” he answered with quaking heart.

“You have good reason not to tell me, Ma'rouf, but can I not see it from afar without touching it?”

“Not that either, Your Majesty. How miserable I am not to be able to fulfill your wish!”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Thank you for your kindness, Your Majesty.”

“I wonder at you,” said the sultan after some thought. “Were you to want to sit upon my throne, no power on earth could stop you.”

Ma'rouf exclaimed in disavowal, “God forbid, Your Majesty. I am nothing but a believing servant of God, who is not tempted by any power to oppose God's wish.”

“You are a believer, truly—and it is a blessing that the ring is in the hand of a believer.”