“Every time I told him to go right, he went left!” the defunct pharaoh fumed.
“You must use your powers as needed,” exhorted Abu.
“We lack the ability to use physical force,” Akhenaten complained.
“Do you want to go up, or do you not?” exploded“The trouble is, you are not used to persuading and convincing people of your point of view. You only know how to give orders!”
Abu turned to Raouf. “How are things with you?” he asked.
“I’m off to a good start,” the youngster said.
“Wonderful!” said Abu.
“Yet I wonder, doesn’t everyone have their own guide?”
“Naturally,” said Abu.
“Then why does everyone just give up?”
“How wrong you are,” Abu abjured. “You were born in the age of revolutions!”
At that moment, a green bird the size of an apple landed on Abu’s shoulder. It brought its rose-colored beak close to Abu’s ear. Abu seemed to be listening, when the bird suddenly flew off into space until it was hidden behind a white cloud.
Abu looked meaningfully into Raouf’s eyes. “That was the messenger from the Second Heaven,” he explained, “bringing word of the acquittal and right to ascend for one called Sha‘ban al-Minufi.”
“Who’s he?” asked Raouf.
“An Egyptian soldier who was martyred at Morea in the age of Muhammad Ali. He was mentor to a hard-currency smuggler named Marwan al-Ahmadi—and finally succeeded in his campaign to drive him to suicide.”
Sha‘ban al-Minufi approached, wrapped in his vaporous robe. “May you ascend gloriously and with grace to the Second Heaven,” Abu told him.
All the spiritual guides flocked toward them in the shape of white doves until the verdant place was packed, Sha‘ban al-Minufi’s face beaming in their midst. As celestial music sounded, Abu declaimed, “Rise, O rose of our green city, to carry on your sacred struggle.”
In a pleasing voice, Sha‘ban replied, “Blessings upon whoever renders service to the suffering world.”
At this he began to go up with the lightness of an ephemeral fragrance to the strains of the happy anthem of farewell.
5
Anous Qadri, the butcher’s son, stood facing the police detective who asked him, “When was the last time you saw Raouf Abd-Rabbuh?”
“The afternoon of the day he disappeared,” said Anous. “He came to see me at my house. No sooner had he showed up than he left to do some business. He promised to meet me that evening at the café.”
“Did he tell you anything about this business he had to do?”
“No,” said Anous.
“Did you ask him about it?” the officer pressed him.
“No, I thought it must be something to do with his family.”
“Some people saw the two of you walking together in the alley after he came to you,” the detective informed him.
Don’t be upset. The best thing is to confess. This is your golden opportunity, if you know what’s good for you.
“I walked with him till he left the gate,” said Anous. “You mean he simply disappeared in the desert outside?”
This is doubletalk, Anous—even worse than doubletalk. Only the truth can save you.
“Yes, he did,” answered Anous.
“What did you do after that?”
“I went to the coffeehouse to wait for him.”
“How long did you stay there?” the detective continued.
“Until midnight, then I went home.”
“Can you prove that?”
“Shakir al-Durzi, shaykh of the hara, was sitting next to me the whole time,” said Anous. “Early the next morning, I went to Raouf’s place to ask his mother about him. She told me that he hadn’t come back.”
“What did you do?”
“I asked all our friends and acquaintances in the alley about him.”
“Do you have any personal insight into his prolonged disappearance?” the policeman asked.
“Not at all! It’s truly baffling,” insisted Anous.
Here you are leaving the station, Anous. You prepare in advance every word you speak. You rue the mention of the gate, and wonder who saw you walking there with me. It’s as though you are contemplating more evil. You repeat the details of your conversations to your father. He is strident—the money, the law, and the witnesses are all in his pocket. I counsel you again to confront your crime with courage and to clear your account. But what’s this? Does Rashida’s image still trace itself in your imagination? This is the very essence of madness. Then you see that the inquiries about you will continue like a flood. The shaykh of the alley has come to the same conclusion. The Unseen warns of unknown surprises. You are thinking of all this, and at the same time you’re obsessed with Rashida, you fool!
Reflecting on this, Raouf remarked to Abu, “Fear of death is the greatest curse to afflict humankind.”
“Was it not created to prevent them from doing wrong?” Abu replied.
Raouf was silent as Abu added, “You were appointed as a guide, not a philosopher—remember that.”
6
You’re asking yourself, Anous, why did the detective summon you a second time? Things are not turning out as simply as you thought.
Here is the officer questioning you:
“What do you know about Raouf’s private life?”
“Nothing worth mentioning.”
“Really?” the detective challenged him. “What about his love for Rashida, the student in the school of fashion design?”
“Every young man has a relationship like that!” Anous said dismissively.
“Do you have one like it?”
“These are personal things that have no place in an investigation.”
“Is that what you think?” the officer shot back. “Even when you love the same girl yourself?”
“The issue needs clarification,” protested Anous.
“Good!” exclaimed the policeman. “What could that be?”
“I revealed to Raouf once that I wanted to get engaged to Rashida, and he confided in me that the two of them were in love with each other,” Anous asserted. “At that I excused myself, and considered the subject closed.”
“But love doesn’t end with a word,” scoffed the detective.
“It was nothing but a fleeting feeling…. I don’t know what you mean!”
“I’m gathering information, and I’m wondering if your feelings for your friend haven’t changed, if only just a little?”
“Absolutely not,” answered Anous. “My emotions for Rashida were nothing special—but my friendship with Raouf was the kind that lasts a lifetime.”
“You said, was—has it ended?”
“I meant,” Anous said nervously, “that our friendship is for life.”
You’re wondering, how is the investigation proceeding with Rashida? What has she admitted? Fine. Let me tell you that the inquiry is ongoing. She has told them of your attempt to rip her from your friend’s heart. Just as she told them of your father’s omnipotence, and her fear for her own and her mother’s safety. I guarantee you, things really are now going against you.
“You sound as though you’ve given up on seeing your friend again,” the detective taunted, laughing.
“I’m sure he’s coming back,” sputtered Anous. “That’s what my heart tells me.”
“A believer’s heart is his guide,” said the officer. “I, too, want him to come back.”
You’re leaving the police station, even more disturbed than you were the last time. I think you sensed that this clever little gumshoe suspects you completely, and you don’t believe your father is able to control everything. Did not Hitler himself suffer final defeat—and even kill himself in the end?
7
The detective has called you back for a third session, Anous. Nerves are starting to fray. Your father stares at Shakir al-Durzi with fury, but what can the shaykh really do? Stop in front of your tormentor, the officer,
and listen:
“Anous, we’ve received an anonymous letter that accuses you of killing your friend, Raouf.”
“A contemptible charge,” Anous shouted with spurious rage. “Let whoever made it show his face!”
“Be patient,” the officer warned him. “We weigh everything accurately here. Didn’t you and your friend often spend evenings together outside the gate?”
“Sure,” Anous acknowledged.
“Where, then, did you two spend your time in that vast desert?”
“In the Nobles’ Coffeehouse on the plateau.”
“I’ve decided to conduct a face-to-face meeting between you, Anous, and the men in the café.”
Hold on, don’t be distressed. You are stubborn—that’s the truth. You don’t want to respond to my secret whisperings. Be sure that I’m working in your interest, Anous.
The meeting took place. The owner of the coffeehouse and his young helper testified that they hadn’t seen Anous for more than a month. That he was not entirely convinced showed clearly on the detective’s face. He glared at Anous harshly.
“Please get out,” the officer told him.
You’re leaving the station again, a grin of victory on your lips. You have the right to feel that way—for your father has thrown up a defensive line all around you. But will the affair really end there? Your heart is palpitating while you pass your days loitering in front of your victim’s house. Anxiety assails you yet again. Who was the unknown person who sent the letter accusing you? And will there be any more like it? You are a killer, Anous, and your conscience doesn’t want to awake. Just let me visit you tonight in a dream—for so long as you won’t respond to my clandestine appeals, you will find my corpse stretched out next to you on your bed. Ah—here your scream arises, propelled by your nightmare. You awake in terror, your heart heavy with horror. You slither from your bed to moisten your throat with a gulp of water. Yet you find the cadaver with you again as soon as you slip back to sleep. And the dream recurs to you night after night. Your mother urges Shaykh Ashur to examine you. He gives you an amulet to wear over your heart—but my grisly remains will not leave your dreams. Your condition worsens, so you go secretly to see a psychiatrist, with regular visits week after week. He tells you something truly astounding: that you imagine your friend has been murdered—his body represents your own body, due to the emotional bond between you—you are so closely linked that you think that his body is in the place of yours. But why do you picture yourself as the one slain? Your body plays the role of the replacement for another body and another person that, deep down, you’d like to kill. That person is your father. Your father thus is the cause of your dream—all of which reflects an Oedipus complex!
Yet, in reality, you are not courting your mother, nor do you really want to murder your father. Rather, you are in love with Rashida—and you murdered me simply to get me out of the way.
Raouf railed about this clinical error to his spiritual advocate.
“The complaints of incorrect scientific diagnosis are many,” commiserated Abu. “Frustration is mistaken for an illness arising from the consumption of chocolate. Depression caused by loss of faith results in treatment of the sympathetic nerves. Constipation due to the political situation prompts a prescription of laxatives—and so on.”
“What to do then, Abu?”
“Have you yet reached despair?”
“Absolutely not,” insisted Raouf.
“Then put all your strength into your task,” urged Abu.
8
The cause of Raouf Abd-Rabbuh’s disappearance remained undetected, while the incident itself slowly faded from people’s minds. The only ones who still thought of him were his mother and Rashida. Meanwhile, Anous continued to practice his normal way of living absorbed in work and amusing himself. The past pursued him from time to time, both in his waking hours and in sleep, but he tamed and controlled his internal uproar through sedatives, narcotics, and sheer force of will. With the legal side now completely subdued, Anous once again began to fix his thoughts on Rashida—for why else would he have undertaken the most horrific act of his life? He lay in wait to see her every morning as they went to their respective institutes to study. Was her face still set in the pain of remembrance,hasn’t she lost hope yet? Does she never think of her future as a young woman who should seek life, happiness, marriage, and children? Doesn’t she aspire to have the man who could offer her the most in our whole quarter?
His mad gambit in devotedly pursuing her and his un-shakeable desire to totally possess her had only intensified. Once, as she passed the place where he was seated on a tram, he called out to her in greeting—but she ignored him completely.
“We should be helping each other!” he called to her.
She wrinkled her brow in disgust, but he kept talking to her, “We’ve each lost a dear one that we both shared!”
At this she broke her silence, “He wasn’t lost, he was murdered!”
“What?” Anous recoiled.
“Many people believe that,” she said.
“But he didn’t have a single enemy!”
She glared at him with contempt, and said no more.
“She was accusing you of killing him,” Anous told himself. “Do you have any doubt about that? You could erase the crime from your record if you rose up to confront your father—but the time for love has already gone.”
She got off the tram before him. As he followed her movements with longing and resentment, his imagination was seized by uncontrollable visions of lust and violence.
9
“Everyone’s talking about that amazing man who summons the dead,” Rashida’s mother said. “So why don’t you give him a try, since it won’t even cost you a single millieme!”
Raouf’s stricken mother stared at her in confusion, then muttered, “If you’ll go with me.”
“Why not? I’ll get in touch with Rashida’s dearly departed father.”
“Many respectable people believe in the art of contacting the spirits,” interrupted Rashida, who had been following their conversation with interest.
And so, under the strictest secrecy, they made an appointment to try this experiment.
Raouf turned to Abu jubilantly, “This is my chance to expose the culprit!”
“You were assigned as a guide for him—not against him,” rebuked Abu.
“Would you let this opportunity slip out of our hands?”
“You are not a police counselor, Raouf,” Abu cautioned him. “You are a spiritual advisor. Your goal is to save Anous, not deliver him to the hangman.”
“But he’s like a hunk of rock. The winds of wisdom simply bounce right off him,” Raouf rejoined.
“That is a confession of your own incapacity.”
“No, I haven’t given up yet,” Raouf said excitedly. “But what should I do if they call upon my spirit?”
“You are free,” replied Abu. “It would not benefit your freedom to seek guidance from me.”
The séance was convened, attended by Raouf’s mother, along with Rashida and her own mother. They appealed to Raouf beyond the veil of the Unseen—and he entered the darkened chamber.
“Raouf greets you, mother,” he called, in a voice that all present could hear.
“What happened to you, Raouf?” she said, sobbing at the confirmation that her son was dead.
“Don’t be sad, mother,” he answered without hesitation. “I am happy. Only your sorrow grieves me. My greetings to you too, Rashida….”
With that, he instantly rushed from the room.
10
Raouf’s mother, Rashida, and her own mother returned from the séance, asking each other, “Why didn’t he reveal the secret of his murder?”
“He was taken in the prime of his youth!” Raouf’s mother lamented, drying her tears.
“Don’t sadden him with your mourning,” implored Rashida.
“Who knows? Maybe he died in an accident,” her mother wondered.
“But why didn’t he tell us how he died?” Raouf’s mother persisted.
“That’s his secret, whatever it is!” insisted Rashida.
The séances became Raouf’s mother’s sole consolation in life; she would go to them accompanied by both Rashida’s mother and Rashida. But in the final days before her exams, Rashida stopped taking part in them.
On one of these nights, as she was at home studying on her own, Anous Qadri burst into the room. He had slunk up the open central stairwell of her building, then forced his way in. Raouf shouted at him to go back where he had come from, and not to take a single step toward her. But Anous attacked Rashida, stifling her voice by jamming his palm over her mouth.
“You’re going to run after me from now on, you … you stubborn bitch!” he snarled.
Then he began to brutally assault her, as she resisted as hard as she could, but to no avail.
“I’m going to take you alive or dead!” he taunted her.
Her hand groped for a pair of scissors on the table. With an insane strength, despite being pinned under his heavy weight, she plunged it into the side of his neck. He pressed upon her with vicious cruelty. Then his vitality ebbed away until he fell motionless upon her body, his warm blood pouring over her face and her torn blouse.
She threw him off of her and he lay sprawled on the tattered carpet. Then she staggered to the window and shrieked at the top of her lungs.
11
The people came running to the apartment, where they found Rashida like a demented murderess spattered with gore. They saw Anous’ body and started to scream, while Rashida curled into herself like a ball, murmuring, “He wanted to rape me….”
If not for the arrival of the detective and the shaykh of the hara, then the news might have led Boss Qadri the Butcher to murder her on the spot.
The Seventh Heaven: Supernatural Tales Page 4
