Gold Dust
Gold Dust
Ibrahim al-Koni
Translated by
Elliott Colla
First published in 2008 by
The American University in Cairo Press
113 Sharia Kasr el Aini, Cairo, Egypt
420 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10018
www.aucpress.com
Copyright © 1990 by Ibrahim al-Koni
First published in Arabic in 1990 as al-Tibr
Protected under the Berne Convention
English translation copyright © 2008 by Elliott Colla
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,
without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Dar el Kutub No. 20184/07
ISBN 978 977 416 143 8
Dar el Kutub Cataloging-in-Publication Data
al-Koni, Ibrahim
Gold Dust / Ibrahim al-Koni; translated by Elliott Colla.—
Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press, 2008
p. cm.
ISBN 977 416 143 2
1. Arabic fiction I. Colla, Elliott (trans.) II. Title
813
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 12 11 10 09 08
Designed by Sally Boylan/AUC Press Design Center
Printed in Egypt
Gold Dust
For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath; so that a man hath no preeminence above a beast: for all is vanity. All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.
Ecclesiastes 3:19–20
Among those owing fealty to the sultan of this kingdom are the peoples of the deserts of gold dust. The heathen savages who live there bring him gold each year, and when the sultan wishes, he seizes them as his slaves. But as the rulers of this kingdom know from experience, no sooner do they conquer one of these cities than the gold begins to dwindle. No sooner do they establish Islam there, and no sooner does the call to prayer go out, than the gold dries up completely. Meanwhile, throughout the neighboring heathen countries, the gold continues to grow and grow.
Ibn Fadlallah al-‘Umari (1301–1349)
The Kingdom of Mali and its Surroundings
1
When Ukhayyad received the camel as a gift from the chief of the Ahaggar tribes, he was still a young colt. Back then, on moonlit nights, Ukhayyad liked to brag about the thoroughbred camel to the other young men of the tribe, taking pleasure in posing questions to himself and then answering them.
“Have any of you ever seen a piebald Mahri before?”
“Never!”
“Have you ever seen a thoroughbred so graceful, so light of foot and so well proportioned?”
“Not until now.”
“Have you ever seen a Mahri who could compete with him in pride, fierceness, and loyalty?”
“Not like this one.”
“Have you ever seen a gazelle who took on the form of a camel?”
“Of course not.”
“Did you ever see anything more beautiful or noble?
“No, no, no! Admit it—you’ve never seen such a thing before and you never will again!” He would leap into the open skipping like a dancing madman until, exhausted, he would collapse on his back on the sand. There, he would raise his voice, singing one of those bewitching songs, like charms against loneliness that riders take refuge in whenever they travel across waterless deserts. He would sing his sad ballad and close with well-known lines taken from the epic of Amud’s war against the French invasion of the desert:
How well did we receive Amud when he approached!
We gave him thoroughbreds dressed for war
And lent him riders who never miss their mark . . .
Ukhayyad’s passion for the piebald thoroughbred grew so intense that he finally sought out a famous poetess of the Kel Abada tribes. He asked her to compose a poem glorifying the Mahri’s innate qualities and extolling his talents, likening him to warrior heroes.
All night long the young man sat enumerating the qualities of the piebald: “He’s piebald. He’s graceful and long legged. He’s well bred. He’s fierce and loyal.”
“It’s not wrong for a rider to laud the qualities of his mount or to sing about him like an angel,” the experienced poetess abruptly interrupted. “But when you decide to commit praise to verse, you must follow convention. Poetry has its rules, after all! Your Mahri has never raised a battle cry nor made a name for himself at dancing festivals.”
Confused, Ukhayyad tried to hide his embarrassment behind his veil. “But he’s piebald,” he blurted out. “It’s enough that he’s piebald. Did you ever see a piebald Mahri before?”
In the past, he had entrusted the vassals of the tribe with the job of breaking in the Mahri and getting him used to the bridle. But that had to change now—it would be wrong for him to rely on vassals to teach him to dance too. In the desert, only noblemen trained camels to dance in front of the womenfolk.
2
Before entering the ring, Ukhayyad wanted to fit out the camel in style. He borrowed most of the necessities, from the saddle and saddlecloth to the bridle, reins, bag, and even the whip. His old dressings were pale and dull-colored, bleached by the sun and unfit for adorning a Mahri that was preparing to dance in front of women, swaying back and forth to the rhythm and melody of music.
He spent an entire day fitting out his equipage. The saddle had been crafted by the cleverest of the Ghat smiths. The dressing was an embroidered kilim rug brought from Touat by merchants. The bridle had been braided by old women of the Ifoghas tribe in Ghadamès. The travel bag had been stitched by the fingers of Tamenrasset noblewomen. The whip was a rare piece, covered by strips of leather on which hands in Kano had once engraved magical charms. After the whip played its role in bringing about Ukhayyad’s disgrace, some elders guessed that it had been supplied to him by the envious young men of the tribe.
He entered the clearing after noon. In the small valley, the women sat in a circle around their drums. The younger women made a wider ring around them. The sheikhs took their place on the rise to the south, the men and boys stood across from them, their heads wrapped in lavish blue turbans. When they strode, they swaggered with the pride of peacocks. The Mahri thoroughbreds were hitched together in a long line on the two sides of the open space, one set to the west, another, facing it, fixed to the east.
Soon a wedding procession made its way into the valley. The celebration was for one of the tribe’s vassals—a habitual divorcer and marrier who had decided this time to take a beautiful mulatta, choosing to savor the taste of Tuareg blood mixed with the heat of Africans.
The entertainment now began with the secondary formations.
Two sleek riders from the western line went first, then two set off opposite them from the east. They met beside the dance arena and galloped off to a torrent of ululations.
Ukhayyad got ready. Beside him gleamed one of the vassal youths, crowned with a Tagolmost turban and girthed with a shiny leather belt. He sat on an elaborately decorated saddle that rested firmly on the back of an elegant gray Mahri camel. This youth would accompany him as he went across the field.
The two approaching men from the other side drew near. The youth sidled his camel up to the piebald Mahri. “It’s my proud honor to escort you today.” He smiled. “There’s no purebred like your piebald throughout the whole desert.” An eye winked behind thick blue fabric. The gesture unnerve
d Ukhayyad. He saw nothing sincere in the eyes of his companion.
They began to move.
They paced in unison, with firm, arrogant strides, pushing the other camel on, moving in harmony. In the short space that separated the emptiness stretching to the west from the singing circle in the middle, Ukhayyad experienced a lifetime of happiness.
The two thoroughbreds moved in unison, their approach slow and balanced. Ukhayyad felt that he was flying on wings in the air, his heart nearly bursting from the enchantment, anxiety, and hidden joy of the moment. Possessed by the music, he lived as hostage to the dance, its passion, and mysterious longing. He guessed that the magnificent piebald shared these same wrenching sensations as they went along to the circle, though he could not say how.
He awoke from the dream to find his partner had swaggered off to the east, toward the line of riders. For his part, the piebald had veered instead to the left, and turned back upon the dancing arena. The girls in the circle laughed among themselves. Mortified, Ukhayyad took the enchanted whip into hand, hoping to drive the camel back into formation. But as soon as the piebald felt the blow of the whip on his skin, he went mad. Instead of moving toward the right or rejoining his partner, he kicked at the circle of girls, then lost his mind altogether. Ukhayyad whipped his flanks again, but the beast’s madness only grew fiercer. He rushed directly into the women’s circle, smashing a handsome drum covered with gazelle skin. The women scattered and the singing came to a halt. Then all was commotion. Ukhayyad pulled the reins until the neck of the mad thoroughbred arched backwards between his legs. But even reining him like that did not stop his frenzied motion across the dance arena. He continued to kick at everything in his path, frothing at the mouth and champing wildly at the bit.
Froth began to fly all over the women in gleaming sprays. Then a throng of strong men on foot hurried over and caught him in ropes. The piebald struggled against them too, so that they were forced to knock him down.
Together, Ukhayyad and the piebald were thrown to the ground on the dance arena.
3
That was not the first time.
The camel had entangled Ukhayyad in far worse humiliations many times before. In the past, he had been in the habit of embarking on late night romantic forays into the nearby encampments. He would saddle up the camel after sunset and depart for his lover’s camp, to arrive only after midnight. He would tether the thoroughbred in the nearest valley and then steal through the shadows to the ladies’ tents. There, he would flirt and chat all night, stealing kisses until the first light broke on the horizon of the desert. Then he would slip back to the valley, leap into saddle, and rush headlong home.
These forays kept up until he realized that his graceful camel had himself become smitten with a lovely she-camel owned by a tribe that spent each spring in the valley of Magharghar. Ukhayyad used to visit a beautiful daughter of that noble clan. He let the piebald graze in the valley floor with the herd while he dallied with the girl in her tents. The tender feelings of his Mahri had not gone unnoticed by him. In fact, from the first visit, he had recognized his steed’s passion for a white she-camel. He became more certain about it after he saw how the piebald flew to Magharghar, seeming to burn with longing for night travel. Ukhayyad gave him a hard time, asking, “Why hide it from me? Admit it—you’re not racing me toward my beloved, you’re flying to get to yours! Admit it—there’s no reason for you to rush there this time. There must be a female behind it. Women are always the reason!”
Leaning forward, spitting, and chewing at his bridle in his joyous rush, the thoroughbred would respond, “Aw-a-a-a-a-a-a.” And Ukhayyad would laugh and slap him.
Then came the day the broom trees burst into bloom with their sad white flowers. He tethered the camel in the valley and left him to graze next to the fragrant broom, not realizing that broom blossoms were a sign that spring had come to the desert valleys. And when spring arrives, it brings with it the mating season—and madness seizes the beasts and sends them into a frenzy. That is what happened on that day.
Ukhayyad had only been murmuring in the girl’s ear a short while when he heard the roar of the rutting beast. At first, he thought it was distant thunder, and he went on stroking her face and flirting. The roar repeated itself even more furiously. He leaped from the tent and rushed to the valley. There, the piebald was crashing into a ferocious gray camel in a terrible battle. Their fight, of course, was over a she-camel. As the dawn split the horizon, the Mahri’s wounds appeared in the feeble light. His opponent’s teeth had shredded his neck and lower jaw and had seriously wounded his left thigh. But the horrible gray adversary had also been wounded, and was bleeding profusely. His entire body was covered in blood.
The commotion awoke the whole tribe. Shepherds rushed into the valley armed with sticks. It was only after a long struggle that they managed to separate the two opponents. The sun burst forth and Ukhayyad realized he had been caught, completely exposed. When the tribe’s young men arrived at the scene, he could sense their scorn. Their eyes told him that they knew everything. Then they led him to the sheikh of the tribe, a tall, lean, old man who held an elegant cane made of lote wood crowned by leather straps embossed with delicate patterns.
Deep wrinkles laced his cheeks, though his glance radiated lively health and an enigmatic sense of mischief. He ordered tea to be prepared and indicated that Ukhayyad should sit down on the kilim inside the tent. He then turned the lote wood cane over in his hands before finally speaking. “There’s no shame in a noble man being in love, or embarking on journeys to clandestine meetings. But what’s wrong with abiding by Muslim law and entering houses by their front doors?”
He smiled and added, “It delights us to receive the son of the sheikh of Amanghasatin in our parts. He earned the honor of having stopped the foreign attackers and halting their intrusion into the desert.”
Ukhayyad understood that the clever sheikh intended to smooth things over and calm the young men with his talk about romantic adventures, and his gesture to the role Ukhayyad’s father had played in repelling foreign invaders from the Sahara. Tribal sheikhs never utter a single word they do not mean—and they express themselves through allusion rather than plain speech.
One of his men brought out the piebald, now exhausted from his injuries. He was covered in blood and spit and sweat and dust.
The astute sheikh took in the mark and build of the camel, then called to his men, “My God! What is this?! Why didn’t you tell me that our noble guest possessed a thoroughbred of such perfection? He’s a piebald Mahri as graceful as a gazelle. This line became extinct throughout the desert a hundred years ago. By God, where did you come by him?”
Glad for the chance to cover himself, Ukhayyad said, “From the chieftain of the Ahaggar. He gave it to me when I reached manhood.”
“Ahh. The chief of the Ahaggar. Ibrahim Bakda. This is a kind of animal that befits a hero like him. No one but he could give such a gift. Those old tribes—they’ve always got surprises and secrets.
“We always say that the Mahri is the mirror of his rider. If you want to stare into the rider and see what lies hidden within, look to his mount, his thoroughbred. Now that I look at you more closely, I can see you’re a young man who’s got everything. Whoever owns a Mahri like this piebald will never complain for want of noble values. You’ve honored our homes, O noble youth descended from noble men!
“But I’m sorry to say, you have little chance of inheriting your father’s position in the tribe. From what I know, your father has three nephews, each of whom is more ready to take over than you . . . . But who knows? Maybe a miracle will happen. The door to miracles is always open.”
A gigantic youth with grim cheeks and rough hands began to serve the first round of green tea.
The sheikh blew on the head of foam on the tea. He placed his cup on the ground and said, “Our noble guest should also allow us to treat his Mahri with generosity. Riders often grumble about having to enter our homes through the fr
ont door. But there’s no harm in his thoroughbred doing that.”
He smiled and most of those present smiled along with him. Ukhayyad did not understand the signal. He could not grasp what the sheikh was alluding to. The sheikh continued aloud, “A rider might escape the women of the tribe, but a rare thoroughbred shouldn’t be allowed to escape its she-camels. I see how our she-camels want to claim him as their own. Having piebald Mahris among our herds will be the envy of all the tribes. It’s our duty to resuscitate the piebald line and preserve it from extinction. What does our guest think?”
The sheikh did not wait for his guest’s opinion. He ordered that she-camels be brought before the Mahri. That day, Ukhayyad witnessed for the first time how males impregnate females. They led in a white she-camel and forced her to her knees on the open ground. They hobbled her fore and hind legs. Then they led the rutting piebald to her and gathered around them. The camel kneeled down on top of her until it seemed to Ukhayyad that the poor she-camel’s ribs would break. She frothed and squealed and vomited frothing spit. When her tail blocked him from entering, one of the men wrenched it out of the way. The wailing rattled the houses, causing the women and children to come out and gape. In front of the houses, they lined up in deep rows. Every now and then the old man would chuckle and point his cane into the air, repeating, “The rider might fly, but this piebald shall not.”
The whole operation was awful. Whenever Ukhayyad remembered it, he was filled with fury and embarrassment.
4
The camel continued his adventures in desert pastures where she-camels roamed loose. But eventually his blind virility cost him. One day he returned, the spark of mischief extinguished from his large eyes, his bottom lip drooping. He stood on the open desert, still and silent, casting a sad gaze across a horizon that danced and flickered with tongues of a celestial mirage.
Gold Dust (Modern Arabic Literature) Page 1
