At last, they hoisted her aloft and ran with her toward Mohamed Mahmoud Street. I could see her terrified face. Terror upon terror, as Zahra had said.
Wasn’t there to be a moment of unconsciousness? Wasn’t my torment to be lessened?
And Farida—wasn’t she going to die?
A cold wind gusted over us, blowing in from where Farida could still be seen, and I knew that this was death’s mercy, come to us at long last. And I wept, for I had given up hope that death would ever come.
Then those carrying Farida fell down at last, and she fell with them.
And death passed between the people, like a wave taking them, raising up souls and casting bodies down. They were dying in mid-motion, then dropping. And then the wave approached me and passed me. It passed me by, and ran away behind me.
And in not more than a single second, the great uproar was turned to total silence. Even those who remained standing were silent, gazing stonily at the fallen all about them.
Then those who were left joined battle, weeping bitterly as they pounded heads with their fists. A man gouged out another man’s eye and tried to pull out his jaw. A man bit into another man’s neck and the blood spurted forth. Two men were throttling one another, each gripping the other’s neck with his hands and yanking upward, and then one died and released the neck of the other, who still held him upright by his neck, continuing to choke him even though he had passed, keening, and shrieking, and shaking the body left and right.
Why do I not die?
I walked toward the spot where Farida had fallen, my feet stumbling over the freshly dead, avoiding those who fought all around me, forced to drop to my knees and to crawl on all fours to reach her, to lay my hands on the flesh and on the heads. The wind was blowing in my face, carrying the full stink of the rotting corpses and the fevered cries of struggling men.
Farida had gone to ground at the beginning of Mohamed Mahmoud Street. I made it there and looked for her body, but I couldn’t find it. It had vanished beneath the others and nothing of it could be seen, and I thought to myself that hell would end now, and that there was no point in burying her.
And I turned back toward the square and the setting sun, to find that all the bodies were gone away. They were gone, along with the stage—there was nothing at all on the ground and nothing behind me.
My knees were touching the asphalt. There were no bodies beneath me, not even Farida’s.
I studied the streets on every side—Qasr al-Aini, and Mohamed Mahmoud, and Talaat Harb—and there was nothing in any of them: no cars, no people. I was alone.
And slowly but surely, I saw hell come to an end.
Every sound around me was gone away, except for the sound of the wind that blew and stirred my clothes. Then even that slackened, until it was no more and the sound of it was gone from my ears.
And I heard no sound save my own heart beating in the midst of the silence—nothing around me now save the buildings of hell, its streets, and lanes, and shop signs, no trace of man at all. And then my heartbeat slowed, and its sound faded until it was gone.
I no longer heard anything at all.
Then I saw that I had been a policeman in the world, and I saw that I had been a policeman in many different lives in many hells, and a million million images passed before me in which I saw everything: how I had tormented people and been tormented by them.
And I saw that hell was eternal and unbroken, changeless and undying; and that in the end, all other things would pass away and nothing besides remain. And I knew that I was in hell forevermore, and that I belonged here.
SELECTED HOOPOE TITLES
No Knives in the Kitchens of this City
by Khaled Khalifa, translated by Leri Price
The Longing of the Dervish
by Hammour Ziada, translated by Jonathan Wright
Time of White Horses
by Ibrahim Nasrallah, translated by Nancy Roberts
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hoopoe is an imprint for engaged, open-minded readers hungry for outstanding fiction that challenges headlines, re-imagines histories, and celebrates original storytelling. Through elegant paperback and digital editions, hoopoe champions bold, contemporary writers from across the Middle East alongside some of the finest, groundbreaking authors of earlier generations.
At hoopoefiction.com, curious and adventurous readers from around the world will find new writing, interviews, and criticism from our authors, translators, and editors.
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