Arabian Nights and Days (6 page)

He found him in the simple reception room, as though expecting
him. He bent over his head, silently, then squatted down on a cushion in front of him. Memories were inhaled like the perfume of a wilted rose, and in the empty space there materialized before him the verses of the Quran and the Sayings of the Prophet and the remnants of good intentions, like drops of blood. He drank his fill from the immanence of the divinely inspired peace until he was overcome with a sense of shame.

“I can read your feelings toward me, master,” he said sadly.

“The knowledge of that is with God alone,” said Abdullah al-Balkhi with his immutable calm, “so do not claim that of which you have no knowledge.”

“In people's opinion,” he said sadly, “I am a bloodthirsty policeman.”

“Why, I wonder, do shedders of blood visit me?”

“How pleasant you are, master,” he said, having taken heart. “The fact is, I have a story I would like you to hear.”

“I have no desire to hear it,” he said haughtily.

“I must make a decision and in no way can its significance be understood without the story being told.”

“The decision is sufficient for an understanding of the story.”

“The matter requires taking counsel,” he said uneasily.

“No, it's your decision alone.”

“Listen to my extraordinary story,” he pleaded.

“No. One sole thing concerns me,” he said calmly.

“What is it, master?”

“That you take your decision for the sake of God alone.”

“It's for this reason that I am in need of your opinion,” he said helplessly.

The sheikh said with resolute calm, “The story is yours alone and the decision yours alone.”

He left the sheikh's house divided between doubt and certainty. It was…if the sheikh knew his story and his decision, as though he were blessing his decision provided it were for the sake of God alone. Had not despair
played a role? Had not self-defense played another role? Had not desire for revenge played a third role? Would it, he wondered, diminish repentance if it were preceded by a sin? The thing to be taken into consideration was the final intention and persisting in it to the end. He was, in any case, burying the old Gamasa and evoking another one.

When he had taken his decision he gave a deep sigh of relief. His energy was redoubled. He visited his home and sat down with Rasmiya, his wife, and his daughter Akraman. His heart was flooded with mysteriously fervent emotions that made him feel his solitude more and more. Even Singam left him to his solitude. Nevertheless his resolution was final and knew no wavering. He faced the most dangerous situation in his life with rare courage and unfaltering resolve.

Returning to his place of work he freed, at his own initiative, the Shiites and Kharijites. He did this in a complete daze, and both troops and victims too were astonished at this action of his. As soon as it was evening he went to the house of government. He turned his gaze from the faces and places he met on his way as though they no longer concerned him. Finally he saw Khalil al-Hamadhani waiting with calm resoluteness, and he did not doubt that he too had arrived at a decision. The reception hall embraced them, no one being present but the human sufferings accumulated behind the cushions and fine draperies, and witnesses from all bygone generations. Exchanging no greeting, the governor coldly asked him, “What have you got to say?”

“Everything's fine,” said Gamasa al-Bulti confidently.

“You've arrested the thief?” he inquired with sudden optimism.

“I've come for that purpose.”

The governor frowned questioningly. “Do you think he's in my household?”

Gamasa pointed at him. “There he is,” he said, “talking unashamedly.”

“By the Lord of the Kaaba, you've gone crazy!” shouted Khalil al-Hamadhani, aghast.

“It is the truth being spoken for the first time.”

As the governor prepared to take action, Gamasa drew his sword. “You'll receive your true deserts.”

“You've gone crazy, you don't know what you're doing.”

“I am doing my duty,” he said calmly.

“Come to your senses—you're throwing yourself into the executioner's hands,” he said in utter confusion and terror.

Gamasa launched a lethal blow at the neck. The governor's terrified screams mingled with his strangled bellowing as his blood spouted like a fountain.

Gamasa al-Bulti was arrested and the sword snatched from his hand. He did not try to escape. He did not resist: he believed that his task had been completed. And so a sense of calm and serenity came over him, and a wave of extraordinary courage rose up that made him feel as though he were treading on his executioners, that he was greater than he imagined and that the base actions he had committed were in no way worthy of him and that submitting to their influence was a degradation that had driven him to his downfall and to being alienated from his human nature. He told himself that he was now practicing a form of worship whose purity would wash clean the filth of long years of dissipation.

With the autumnal breeze was spread the news, which became the talk of the high-class and the common folk. Consternation brought forth countless questions. Predictions conflicted and the ravings of maniacs flared up, while disorder began to sweep over the quarter and the city, its false rumors rising up to the sultan's palace itself. The vizier Dandan soon moved to the house of government at the head of a squadron of cavalry.

In irons, Gamasa al-Bulti was brought before the throne in the Hall of Judgment. Shahriyar appeared in his red cloak which he wore when sitting in judgment, on his head a tall turban studded with rare jewels. To his right stood Dandan, to his left the men of state, while guards were ranged on both sides. Behind the throne was Rama the executioner.

The sultan's eyes had a heavy look burdened with thought. He scrutinized the face of the chief of police for a long time, then asked him, “Do you not admit that I showed you my favor, Gamasa?”

The man answered in a strong, stirring voice. “Certainly, O Sultan.”

The sultan waited for some sign of defiance from the prisoner despite his being shackled in irons.

“Do you admit killing Khalil al-Hamadhani, my deputy in your quarter?” he asked with a frown.

“Yes, O Sultan.”

“What made you commit your repugnant crime?”

“It was to fulfill the just will of God,” he said clearly and without heed to the consequences.

“And do you know what God the Almighty wants?”

“This is what I was inspired with through an extraordinary story that changed the course of my life.”

The sultan, drawn to the word “story,” inquired, “And what was that?”

Gamasa related his tale: being born of ordinary folk; studying at the prayer room of Sheikh Abdullah al-Balkhi; leaving the sheikh after learning the rudiments of religion, reading, and writing; his strong physique that had qualified him for service in the police; being chosen to be chief of police because of his rare ability; and being corrupted step by step until with time he was the protector of the corrupt and an executioner of the people of sense and judgment; the appearance of Singam in his life; the crises he had been through; and—finally—his bloody act of repentance.

Shahriyar followed attentively, with clearly conflicting reactions to his words.

“Gamasa's Singam following on from Sanaan al-Gamali's Qumqam,” he said coldly. “We've found ourselves in the age of genies who have nothing better to do than kill governors.”

“I haven't—and God is my witness—added a single word to the facts,” said Gamasa.

“Perhaps you are dreaming that that will save you from punishment.”

“My boldness affirms that I don't care,” he said scornfully.

At a loss, Shahriyar said, “So let your head be cut off and hung above the door of your house, and let your properties be confiscated.”

In an underground prison, and in darkness, he fought his pains and clung to his courage. He had aroused the sultan's ire and had triumphed over him, leaving him on his throne mumbling in defeat. Sorrowfully, he remembered Rasmiya and Akraman, while Husniya too ranged through his thoughts. His family would endure the same ignominy as had Sanaan's, but God's mercy was stronger than the universe. He thought that he would remain sleepless, but in fact he slept deeply, only waking at a loud noise and light from torches. Perhaps it was the morning and these were the soldiers come to lead him off to execution. The square would be crammed with people who had come out of curiosity, and there would be a mass of conflicting emotions. So be it. But what was he seeing? He was seeing the soldiers falling upon Gamasa al-Bulti with kicks, while the man woke up moaning with terror. What was the meaning of this? Was he dreaming? If that was Gamasa al-Bulti, then who was he? How was it that no one was taking any notice of him, as though he wasn't there? Amazed, he feared he was losing his mind—perhaps he had already done so. He was seeing Gamasa al-Bulti right there in front of him. The soldiers were driving him outside. And he—unlike him—was in a state of extreme terror and collapse. He also found himself free of his bonds. Resolved to leave the prison, he followed after the others. No one paid him any attention.

The whole city was crammed into the square where the punishment was to take place—men, women, and children. In the forefront were the sultan and the men of state. The leather apron, on which the execution would be performed, lay in the middle, with, alongside it, Shabeeb Rama and a group of his assistants. Neither Rasmiya nor Akraman had come, which was good. How many of the faces he knew and had had dealings with! He moved from place to place, but no one heeded him. As for Gamasa al-Bulti, he was approaching the leather
apron amid his guards. A single face often appeared to him and surprised him: it was the face of Sahloul the bric-a-brac merchant. When the moment of awesome silence took control, and the leather apron wrenched all eyes to itself, his heart beat fast and it seemed to him he would breathe his last after the other's head had fallen. In a moment heavy with silence Shabeeb Rama's sword was raised aloft, then brought down like a thunderbolt, the head fell, and the story of Gamasa al-Bulti was at an end.

Gamasa al-Bulti had expected death, yet he passed it by and went off. His bewilderment was redoubled as he moved among the flow of people leaving, until the square was completely empty. He asked himself, “Am I Gamasa al-Bulti?” at which the voice of Singam came in answer, “How could you doubt it?”

The man, in a state of extreme excitement, called out, “Singam, it's you who are responsible for this miracle!”

“You are alive—all they killed was a likeness of my making.”

“I am indebted to you for my life, so don't abandon me.”

“No,” he said distinctly, “now we're all square. I commend you to the protection of God.”

“But how can I appear before people?” he called out in alarm.

“It is quite impossible for people to recognize you. Look in the first mirror you come across.”

F
rom above the door hung the head of Gamasa al-Bulti. Passersby looked at it, stood for a while, then went on—and Gamasa al-Bulti was one of them. They looked out of curiosity, or in pity, or gloatingly. As for him, he looked in stupefaction. He had not yet recovered from his distress on witnessing the eviction of his wife and daughter from their house. They had both passed by him without paying any heed, for he had assumed the form of a slim Ethiopian with crimpy hair and a light beard. His astonishment at his appearance did not cease, neither did his sadness for his family. He would circle round the house and listen to the conflicting comments voiced under the suspended head. The top people, like Karam al-Aseel, the druggist, and the draper would curse him mercilessly, while the common folk would express pity for him.

The new governor Yusuf al-Tahir, his private secretary Buteisha Murgan, and the new chief of police Adnan Shouma, supervised the confiscation of his house. He wondered what had gone to the general exchequer and how much had found its way into their pockets. He stayed close by the suspended head, looking and pondering and listening. He saw Ugr the barber saying to Ibrahim the water-carrier,
pointing at the head, “They killed him for the solitary good act he did in his life.”

“Why didn't his Muslim genie save him?” inquired the water-carrier.

“Don't delve into what you don't know,” warned the barber, and Ma'rouf the cobbler confirmed his words.

Gamasa saw Sahloul the bric-a-brac merchant looking at the head with little concern and remembered his extraordinary energy on the day of the execution. When the merchant was on his own, he approached him and asked, “Can you not enlighten a stranger with the story of whose head this was?”

Sahloul glared at him with a look that sent shivers through his body. He felt that it penetrated to his depths, and the man took on for him an even greater mystery. As he made off, Sahloul said, “I know no more about him than others do.”

Gamasa followed him with his eyes until he disappeared, then said to himself, “Perhaps he thinks himself too big to talk to a foreign Ethiopian.”

He recollected his long history as a former policeman knowledgeable about people's circumstances, and he acknowledged that Sahloul had been the only influential merchant not to have formed a suspect relationship with him or with the governor. But he soon forgot him in the crush of his reflections. Then he saw Ragab the porter joining the group of Ugr, Ibrahim, and Ma'rouf, and he went up to him, impelled by a plan he had already worked out. He greeted him and said, “I'm an émigré Ethiopian and I want to work as a porter.”

Ragab was reminded of his first friend, Sindbad, and said, “Come along with me, for God is a generous provider.”

In spirit and body he hovered around his family. What value would there have been in his life if he had been detached from both his family and his head? He went on following Rasmiya and Akraman until they settled themselves in a room in the residence building where Sanaan's
family were living. Without hesitation, he rented himself a room in the same building and became known as Abdullah the porter. In the clouds of his unrest it pleased him that it had been Umm Saad who had led his family to their new home. It pleased him that Umm Saad had not forgotten the fact that they had been neighbors of old and had not forgotten Rasmiya's attempt to help her in her adversity. She would join with Rasmiya in making the sweetmeats, which Fadil Sanaan would peddle round to the advantage of both families. He was greatly pleased by that, as well as by having them as neighbors. He enjoyed seeing them and knowing they were well. He would express his love for them and carry out such duties of a husband and a father as he was able to from afar, his situation being known by no one. He expected that Fadil would marry his daughter Akraman, as agreed with Sanaan, just as he dreamed one day of marrying Husniya, Fadil's sister.

He went on in that strange life, at times feeling he was alive, at others that he was dead.

Indeed, he was both Abdullah the living and Gamasa the dead: a strange experience never before known to man. Working for his daily bread in the company of Ragab, he would remember that he was alive; then, crossing the street under his suspended head, or seeing Rasmiya and Akraman, he would remember that he was dead. Never losing sight of his miraculous escape from death, he resolved to walk along the path of godliness till the end. He would find his pleasure in worship and would take delight in his solitude through remembering God. He would inwardly address his suspended head with the words “May you remain a symbol of the death of a wicked man who long abused his soul,” though his heart would continually be filled with nostalgia for his short-lived persona, that persona that had crowned its life with a sincere repentance, ever stirred by the thought that a man could die when alive or live when dead. Who was there who could believe he was Gamasa al-Bulti in his hidden essence? Was it conceivable that he alone would possess this secret forever? Even Rasmiya and Akraman looked at him as if he were
some stranger from foreign parts. He would thus feel before their indifferent gaze a cruel sense of alienation and of tortured injustice. Not once had they become aware of that deep-rooted love that lay behind his furtive glances. They gave back no echo to his feelings of longing. In their eyes the scene of the execution was repeated every morning and evening, and their sorrow at the memory of him cut into his soul as they immersed themselves in the daily worries of life. They would never believe that life had been granted to him by a miracle, nor be able to accept this fact. They had swallowed the agonies of his death and had suffered the grief. They had experienced life without him, and leaving their new situation would be as difficult as it had been to enter it. He would not venture to raze the new structure, would not be able to. He who had died must continue in death as a mercy to those he loves. It was up to him to get used to his death in his new life—let him be Abdullah the porter, not Gamasa al-Bulti. Let his happiness lie in work and worship. Nonetheless, his work often led him to the houses of his former friends and to the mansions of those with influence and positions of power: the world of outward piety and latent corruption. All that brought him back to thinking about himself and the circumstances of people, and it spoiled the serenity of his spiritual peace. He was pursued by crookedness and deviation as though his limbs had been taken by storm and their functions negated. He told himself that just as the stars proceed on their way in splendid order, so too must the concerns of God's creatures.

“But have I stayed on in life by a miracle in order that I might work as a porter?” he asked himself uneasily.

Shahriyar looked at the specters of the trees that whispered together in the night. The sultan reclined in his seat on the back balcony despite the fact that autumn was retreating before the harbingers of winter. He was more able to bear the cold than to dispute with the flood of his thoughts. Turning toward his vizier Dandan, he inquired, “Do you dislike the dark?”

“I like what Your Majesty likes,” the vizier said loyally.

He was always asking himself whether the sultan had truly changed or whether it was a passing phase. But be patient. In the past he had been decisive, clear, cruel, and insensitive. Now a perplexed look was quick to flash in his eyes.

“The nation is happy and profuse in its thanks,” said Dandan.

“Ali al-Salouli was murdered,” muttered the sultan sharply, “and was quickly followed by Khalil al-Hamadhani.”

“Good and evil are like day and night,” said Dandan with compassion.

“And the genies?”

“When faced with the leather mat of execution a criminal makes up what story he can.”

“But I remember the stories of Shahrzad,” he said quietly.

Dandan's heart beat fast and he said, “A murderer must meet his punishment.”

“The truth is that I was on the point of contenting myself with imprisoning Gamasa al-Bulti.” Then wrathfully, “But I executed him as a penalty for his insolent way of addressing me.”

Dandan told himself that his master had changed only superficially. However, he said, “The villain in any case received his due.”

“And I got my share of depression,” he said sharply.

“Your Majesty, no doubt it is a transitory indisposition.”

“No, it is one of the conditions of being—and did Shahrzad's stories tell me of anything apart from death?”

“Death!” said the vizier uneasily.

“Peoples swallowed up by peoples, with a sole determined victor knocking finally at their door: the Destroyer of Pleasures.”

“It is the will of God, may your continuance in life be long!”

“The heart is a place of secrets,” he said in an even voice, “and melancholy is shy. The kings of old were cured at night by wandering round and investigating the circumstances of the people.”

Grasping at the life buoy, Dandan said, “Wandering about and investigating people's circumstances—what an inspiration!”

He said to himself, “A being without limits to his power: he may show himself to be a flower or he may bring about an earthquake.”

Abdullah the porter continues on his rounds without pause: in the culs-de-sac and winding alleys, in the merchants' and craftsmen's quarters, along the boat routes, through the squares for shooting practice, hunting, and executions, and under the huge gates that act as boundaries, with aromas diffused like signposts: the penetrating smell of the druggist's shop, the narcotic essences, the tickling cloths, the appetizing foods, the stinking hides. Rasmiya and Akraman pass by, and Umm Saad and Husniya. He extends a greeting with a tongue that is hesitant in this world and with a heart that has inhabited the other. In his wanderings he has got to know Fadil Sanaan and has cemented his relationship with him. Among the people are those who keep in touch, such as Hasan the druggist and Nur al-Din, while some avoid him like the Devil.

Abdullah was anxious that the story of the genie should not be spread abroad lest it put an end to the future of Akraman and Husniya, both of whom were well set up for successful marriages. He loved Fadil Sanaan for his seriousness, his piety, and his courage, so he chose the stairway to the public fountain as a place to rest during his day's work, and there they would meet and chat. Once he said to him, “You're a pious young man who performs all his prayers, so why do you not safeguard your virtue by marrying?”

“I cannot find the necessary expenses.”

“Not much is needed.”

“I have my self-esteem and pride.”

“There's Akraman right in front of you,” said Abdullah temptingly.

Their eyes met in a smile that revealed many secrets.

“And you, Uncle Abdullah, are forty or more and are not married,” said Fadil.

“I'm a widower, and I too would like to safeguard my virtue.”

“It seems that you are in no need of a matchmaker.”

“The lady Rasmiya, the mother of Akraman,” he said gently.

Fadil laughed and said, “Let's wait a little and we'll present ourselves together.”

“Why wait?”

“So that the memory of Gamasa al-Bulti may be erased.”

His heart contracted: he wanted Rasmiya on the strength of his loyalty and piety. But if he obeyed his desires he would choose none other than Husniya. The day that Rasmiya accepted him he would rejoice with half his heart, while the other half would be in mourning.

Whenever he found himself alone he would ask, “Have I been kept in life by a miracle that I might work as a porter?” He would also wonder, “Why did Singam not desert me at the crucial moment, as Qumqam did with Sanaan al-Gamali?” Filled with perplexity, like a vessel open to the rain, he found his legs had brought him to the house of Sheikh Abdullah al-Balkhi. He kissed his hand and sat down cross-legged in front of him, saying, “I am a stranger.”

“We are all strangers,” the sheikh interrupted him.

“Your name is like a flower that draws to it the wandering bees.”

“Good actions are better than good words.”

“But what are good actions? This is my difficulty.”

“Did you not, on your coming, happen upon a man at his wit's end?”

“Where, master?”

“Between the stations of worship and of blood?” he said gently.

He trembled in fear and realized that the sheikh could see that which was veiled.

“In the pitch-black night the full moon is not to be found,” he said with a sigh.

“I have known three types of disciples,” said the sheikh.

“In all cases, they are fortunate.”

“People who learn the principles and strive in the world; people who penetrate deeply in learning and assume control of things; and
people who persevere in journeying right up to the spiritual station of love—but how few they are!”

Abdullah the porter thought for a while, then said, “But mankind is in need of supervision.”

Without losing his composure, the sheikh said, “Each in proportion to his zeal.”

Abdullah overcame his own hesitancy by saying, “Yet I have had you as my goal, master.” He stumbled in silence as though to collect his thoughts, and the sheikh said, “Do not speak to me of your goal.”

“Why not?”

“Each in proportion to his zeal.” And he lowered his eyelids, withdrawing into himself.

Abdullah waited for him to open them again, but he did not do so. Bending over and kissing his hand, he made his departure.

He told himself that the sheikh was privy to his apprehensions and had brought him back to himself. This he must accept, since he had put his trust in someone. Tomorrow the evildoers will meet their woe by the resolve of a penitent man and the guile of an experienced policeman. He continued in his work, earning serenity and concentration of thought, and from a compassion that spread through his heart his mind provided itself with thoughts that knew no compassion, thoughts as sharp as the blade of a sword. All too quickly life had taken him by surprise with its droll contradictions, gory outcomes, and promised happiness. He refused to retreat because he had refused to take the gift of life without paying the price. Then Husniya would appear before him like a ray of hope gleaming in the sky of another world. In the late afternoon he would take himself off to the stairway of the public fountain, where Fadil Sanaan met with him. It became evident that the young man had leapt over time more quickly than he had reckoned.