The Imam was so scared of Marzouk that he ran away as fast as he could, and as he ran his footsteps echoed with a metallic noise, for the heels of his shoes were fitted with iron hooves. He went on running, his eyes raised to heaven since his faith in God was great. He kept muttering, ‘Grant me victory over my enemies, grant me that the desires of my heart come true.’ His bulging eyes were full of dark yearning, and his lips were thick with lust for possession. He wanted a throne on earth, and a throne in heaven, a summer palace overlooking the sea, and a winter palace down south. He also wanted a palace in heaven for his after-life, deep cool rivers flowing under it, and numerous concubines both female and male. His tongue was dry and he was thirsty, but he never ceased running, his mouth open, his breath panting. Ever since childhood he had suffered a feeling of deprivation, and he went through life carrying it with him. His desire to possess things was like a chronic disease, like a great hunger, and he had an unlimited faith in God’s power, in what He could do for him. He developed a patch of rough blue skin on his forehead from repeated prostration, and in his right hand he held a rosary of yellow beads for all to see, testimonies of his devotion to God. Over his right buttock hung a sword, encased in a long sheath, and over the left buttock he held his hand, hiding the hole in his trousers.
He disappeared into the night muttering words of gratitude to God, his mouth exhaling an odour of wine and of sweat from the bodies of unhappy women, and Marzouk continued to bark, but nobody seemed to hear him. The coloured rockets of the Big Feast were bursting in the sky, and from a thousand microphones poured out an endless stream of words, for the Imam was speaking to his people and the speech was being broadcast on the air, beginning with ‘In the name of God’, and ending with ‘Praise be to His Holy Prophet.’
They dispersed after the speech was over, disappearing into their houses. They felt carried away with a kind of exhilaration, with a feeling of victory over some unknown foe which mounted to their heads, but in their mouths was a bitterness, a vague taste of defeat. Meanwhile, the streets filled up with men carrying knives. They were all shouting the same word, repeating it time after time. ‘Butcher.’ Then all of a sudden they ceased their shouting and there was a vast silence, a mysterious gloom, but the silence did not last. It was broken by screams, the piercing screams of those being sacrificed rising up from every house, followed by clouds of dense smoke, heavy with the smell of burning flesh.
After eating they put on new clothes, and shoes with iron hooves fitted to the heels. Their footsteps could be heard clinking on the pavements and the streets, and their voices were raised in thanksgiving to God for His bountiful mercy. In their left hands they carried a rosary of prayer beads and in their right hands each of them carried a stone. For the time had come and they were ready to do what had to be done. The time had come for them to stone the Devil to death.
They tied her up with hemp cord and gathered in a circle around her, vying with one another to see who could throw more stones, who could strike her more often on the bull’s eye over her belly, where Satan had branded her with his mark. It had been made known that he who won would be decorated with the Order of Chivalry and Honour, and presented with a small palace adjoining the palace of the Imam as well as concubines to entertain him with their charms.
Under her body the earth was cool, but her nose was choked with dust. They pegged her to the ground, bared her bosom, and pulled her arms and legs apart. In her ears echoed the sound of drums, and children’s laughter, and over her head floated the coloured balloons. Her eyes kept searching among the children for the face of her child. At one moment she caught a glimpse of a small, wan face hemmed in by people all around, waved her hand, and whispered in a voice like the rustle of leaves in the wind: ‘Bint Allah, here ... come here.’
Ever since the moment I was born her voice echoed in my ears, calling out to me in the rustle of the wind and the movement of leaves. Her features were part of my memory, lines cut into its stone. I saw her standing there, a statue of rock, bathed in light, the contours of her body shrouded in a dark haze. Her fingers were clasped over her heart, her features were sharp, unyielding, yet composed. She was a woman who gave her life and received nothing in return. In her eyes was the pain of discovery. The shock was over, but the sadness lingered on, like a pure light in her face, or some new vision of the world. Her body was slender, almost innocent of flesh, a spirit or a dream, unneedful of movement, or of words to be, yet with a consistency of its own, palpable beneath an envelope of air. Her head was held upright, and she smiled the smile of a woman who had lost everything and kept her own soul, had unveiled the secrets of the world, and pierced through the mask of heaven. Her suffering showed in the furrows of her face, so deep that they had grooved themselves into the bone; but her eyes continued to shine with an inner glow.
The guardian shut the last door in the palace of the Imam, repeating the Verse of the Seat under his breath to ensure that all devils and djinns were shut out. Everyone slept: the Imam, his spies, the devils, the angels, the gods. Even the trees and the wind slept. She alone remained awake, her eyes wide open, her body upright, standing for a long time without the slightest movement, her arms holding something tightly pressed against her. She looked around cautiously, bent down until her head almost touched the ground, and started to smooth it out with her peasant’s hand, brushing aside the stones and pebbles. Then she covered the surface with earth to make it soft like a mother’s lap, quickly wrenched me away from her breast, with her hands, and laid me down on my bed.
There I lay, fast asleep. My face, peering out of an opening in the white wrappings, was a pale patch in the night, and my chest rose and fell with the deep breathing of a child. One of my hands crept out of its sleeve, palm upwards to the sky as though soliciting the mercy of the powers on high.
She took off her black woollen shawl and wrapped it carefully around me. My hand touched her finger and quickly curled around it, holding tight, refusing to let go. She abandoned it to my tiny grasp, left it to stay there for a moment as long as the endless night, as long as a mother’s sigh when she leaves her child behind. Then she started to withdraw it very slowly, as though she was draining the life blood from my heart little by little. The moment her flesh parted from my flesh, I shivered and woke up. I saw her standing upright, looking down at me, her face in the sky, and her eyes like stars. Then she turned round and walked away. I saw her from the back, straight as a spear, walking with a long stride, neither fast nor slow, her arms swinging free as the air. The distance between us kept growing, but her body seemed no smaller. It moved further and further away without changing, until all at once she was gone.
The Children of God
I heard the sound of bullets being fired from a gun, one after another in quick succession. I saw him fall, and as he fell I watched the face before me change slowly into another face, into a face I had never seen before. A strange face, neither human nor animal; a face that belonged not to a man, or to a father, or to an Imam. It was one of those terrible faces remembered from my childhood nightmares, or from the tales told to me by an old grandmother who suckled me with breast milk and stories about devils and djinns. Like all the other children in the home, I had never seen my real grandmother. We knew nothing about our fathers, or our mothers, or our grandmothers. We were called the children of God, and I was called Bint Allah, the Daughter of God. I had never seen God face to face, yet I thought He was my father, and that my mother was His wife.
In my sleep I often used to dream of my mother. In my dream, she stands in an open space, waiting for God. The night is dark and everyone has gone to bed, but there she is standing alone, in the same place where I always find her. I am lying on the ground and can see her face high up above me, cut out against the sky. Her eyes shine with light and her voice reaches me like a whisper carried by the wind. I hear her call out softly, ‘Bint Allah, come here.’ I get out of bed and walk on my bare feet towards the voice. It reaches me from a distance, sou
nding muffled as though separated from me by a door. I open the door and look out. There is no one. I walk down a long corridor and still there is no one. At the end is another door, but nearby I discover an open window, which looks out on to a courtyard. I jump up to the window-sill in one leap, slip out and walk along the edge of a wall. I hold out my arms in front of me. My body keeps its balance well and I do not falter, moving as easily and as swiftly as a feather. My feet scarcely touch the ground, for I am like a spirit without a body. At the end of the wall I jump off into the courtyard, landing on all fours like a cat, crouching silently without moving, straining my ears to catch any sound in the dark. Little by little I begin to hear something like whispers coming from behind a closed door. The door is made of wood and is painted bright green, like a field of young wheat. Light filters through a crack in the wood.
‘Who stands there in the dark?’
‘It’s me.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Bint Allah.’
‘Come here, Bint Allah.’
I enter a small room. It is almost dark inside. Behind the door stands a woman, the wife of the guard. She is dressed in a black robe which is wide around her body, and she wears a white kerchief knotted over her head. She stretches out her hands to me. They are brown as earth, and her eyes shine like stars in the night. Her chest heaves up and down with a sobbing breath. Her skin is smooth and her breasts are full of milk. I can see her hold the dark erect nipple between her fingers and squeeze the pain out of it, drop by drop, like tiny pearls of milk or sap oozing from dry bark. The small crib beside her is empty, and on the other side sleeps her husband, snoring loudly. His face is webbed in wrinkles and his dark beard is rolled up over his chin under a thin worn blanket. He opens his eyes suddenly and stares at me as I nestle in her arms. I can see his bloodshot eyes fix themselves for a long moment on my face before he shouts out in a loud voice, ‘This is not my child. Whose child is she?’
The woman answers, ‘She is Bint Allah.’
He lifts his hand high up in the air and brings it down on her face with all his might. ‘You adulterous whore! You daughter of an adulterous bitch!’ he screams.
I open my eyes in the dark. In the beds I see rows of children lifting their heads to look around. Near my bed lies a girl of my age whose name is Nemat Allah. I call her sister. She has black silky hair, and it lies on her pillow above the bed cover. Her eyes are wide open and she gasps with silent sobs. Then the gasping stops and I can hear her whisper softly, ‘Bint Allah, come here.’
I get out of bed and lie down beside her. She winds her arms around me, and her body starts to shake again. ‘I am afraid,’ she says.
Afraid of what?’
‘I am afraid of God.’
‘Why?’
‘I do not know. Are you not afraid of God?’
‘I am Bint Allah, the Daughter of God, so why should I be afraid of Him? Why should I be afraid of my father?’ She holds me tight, and I can hear her heart beat. Her bosom is round and smooth like a mother’s and we sleep in each other’s arms until dawn.
Before sunrise she wakes me up. ‘Bint Allah, go back to your bed.’ Orders in the home are strict. A bell rings when it is time to sleep, and no one is allowed to leave their bed. If two children are caught together the punishment is severe. At the back of the courtyard is a punishment cell, and terrible stories are told about what happens there. In front of the door stands a big tall man. His bald head shines in the light, his broad face is covered in hair, and he has narrow, deep-set eyes. In his right hand he holds a long stick, and in his left hand he fingers a rosary of yellow beads.
At night my sister wraps her arms around me. She weeps silently for a long time, then, stifling her sobs and wiping her tears with the back of her hand, she begins to speak. She tells me how God visited her mother in a dream and how after that she became pregnant with child like the Virgin Mary. When her belly grew big she put on a wide flowing robe in order to hide what had happened. One night, when everyone was fast asleep, she gave birth to her child; but the eyes of the Imam, always wide awake, saw everything. They took her away, tied her with a rope of hemp, put her in an open space and started to stone her to death, one stone after the other, without haste, until she died.
I hold Nemat Allah tight in my arms. After a little while I say, ‘But if God was the cause, why did they stone your mother to death?’ She does not know what to answer and is silent. I keep wondering about all this, but am overcome by sleep, and so my questions remain unanswered. No sooner have I fallen asleep than I start to dream.
In the dream I see God in the form of a man. He stands in front of a door with his right hand hidden behind his back. His face is covered with hair, but his head has no hair at all and it shines in the light. I keep my eyes tightly closed and my body shivers under the bed covers. The man moves his hand out from behind his back, raises it up in the air in front of my eyes and opens his fingers, showing me that he carries no stick. His voice is gentle when he speaks. ‘Bint Allah, come here.’ I can feel his hand touch me. It is big and caressing, and the palm has the feel of a mother’s bosom. I lay my head on his chest and shut my eyes, as he caresses my face. Slowly his hand moves down to my breasts, then to my belly. My body is traversed with a strange spasm, like a deep shaking from within. I can hear his voice whisper in my ears, ‘Don’t be afraid, Bint Allah. I am God and you will give birth to your son the Christ.’
I wake up suddenly, shaking with fright. It is still dark. My body is bathed in sweat, smells of God, of holiness. My hand moves down, feeling its way over my swollen belly. Something moves inside me and under my hand I can feel a pulse beating in unison with my heart. The night is black, and dawn has not yet started to break through. Slowly a faint light starts to creep through the shutters, and above my head the high ceiling is turning grey. I can see the lampshade hanging down from it at the end of a long wire. The wire is black with flies, and the flies are fast asleep. The children have not awakened yet, and their heads are jutting out from under the bed covers like black insects. Near me Nemat Allah is asleep, and her long tresses hide her face with a mask of black silk. I close my eyes, trying to fall asleep again, but the holy smell of God lingers in my nose, and His voice echoes in my ears like a soft whispering.
He hides His hand behind His back, but I no longer fear him. I know that He does not carry a stick, and that His hand is as gentle and caressing as the hand of my mother. He moves up closer to me, advancing with a slow step. I see His face appearing under the light, but it is no longer the same face as it was before. Now the eyes are red and burn with a fierce light. He stretches out his long arm towards me, and I can feel the iron grasp of his thick fingers around my neck. I try to wrench myself free and run, but my body seems tied to the ground. I open my mouth to call out to my mother but there is no sound, as though my voice is paralysed. Suddenly there is a tremendous noise. It reverberates in my eardrum, and shakes the heavens above. I am seized with fright wondering what it can be. Rockets shooting to the sky in celebration of the Big Feast? Voices raised in a great hallelujah? Or ... people screaming?
The Old Face of Baba
It was a noise like the sound of shots fired from a gun in quick succession. The body of the Imam collapsed before my eyes, but his face remained suspended in the sky, all lit up like the sun. Then a sound of thunder echoed in the air and suddenly there was no light, only nuclear radiation. The face of the Imam slowly bowed towards the earth, becoming darker and darker until it could no longer be distinguished from the ground on which it came to rest. Everything happened within the space of seconds, yet time slowed down from the moment he stood on the platform with his face lit up like that of God in heaven, until he collapsed with a face as livid as the Devil. I had never met the Devil in person, and could only remember what he looked like in my dreams or in the stories told by the old grandmother in the orphanage. We used to gather around her in a circle and listen to her tales about devils and djinns until a bell rang or
dering us to bed. Those were the days in the children’s home when I knew neither my mother nor my father. But in my sleep I used to see God come and go. He had two faces, one smooth and gentle like the bosom of my mother, and the other covered in hair and rather fierce-looking. He always appeared in the form of a man whom the children called Baba.
Baba was the first man I ever saw in my life. All of a sudden we would find him standing in front of us, and the next moment, just as suddenly, he would disappear. I never saw him coming in or going out through the door. He would be there, standing with his legs straddled in the middle of the courtyard like someone who has risen through a hole in the earth or fallen from the sky. He had a big beard, and his face was covered with hair. It had a fixed expression as though its muscles never moved. Yet his head was bald and the skin over it shone every time the sunlight fell where he stood. His white shirt remained wide open at the neck, allowing the black bristly hair covering his chest to protrude. He had a broad chest with big rib-bones, and his breast muscles were always powerfully tensed, leaving no place for soft flesh under the skin. Over each breast was a nipple, all black and rough and shrivelled like some old ugly fruit showing under the thin tissue of his shirt. Around his waist he wore a broad belt fastened so tightly that it pushed his belly up against the muscles of his back. His small buttocks looked hard under the stretched leather of his trousers, and his bow legs stood out prominently below the knees; but his thighs were narrow like those of a tiger, rising upwards to meet under the belly over a small lemon-like swelling hanging down in between.
The Fall of the Imam Page 2
