"Then fetch in my brother, Nasheeb."
I went back outside. Hilal and bin Turki were still digging the grave, but were making slow progress. I went to Nasheeb and his wife, who were kneeling on the ground beside the cloak-wrapped body of their daughter. I bent down and touched the old man on his shoulder. He looked up at me with a vacant expression. I was afraid he was in shock. "Come," I said, "the shaykh wishes to speak to you."
Noora's father nodded and got slowly to his feet. He helped his wife get up, too. She was shrieking and beating her chest with her fist. I couldn't even understand what she was crying. I led them into Hassanein's tent.
"The peace of Allah be upon you," said the shaykh. "Nasheeb, my brother, I'm with you in your grief."
"There is no god but God," muttered Nasheeb.
"Who did this?" his wife shouted. "Who took my baby from me?"
I felt like an intruder witnessing their anguish, and it made me uncomfortable that there wasn't anything I could do to help them. I just sat quietly for about ten minutes, while Hassanein murmured soothing things and tried to get the couple into a frame of mind to answer some questions.
"There will come a Day of Resurrection," said Hassanein, "and on that day Noora's face will be bright, looking on her Lord. And the face of her murderer will be full of fear."
"Praise be to Allah, the Lord of the Worlds," prayed Umm Noora. "The Compassionate, the Merciful. Owner of the Day of Judgment."
"Nasheeb—" said Hassanein.
"There is no god but God," said the shaykh's brother, hardly aware of where he was.
"Nasheeb, who do you think killed your daughter?"
Nasheeb blinked once, twice, and then sat up straight. He ran his long fingers through his gray beard. "My daughter?" he whispered. "It was Umm Rashid. That crazy woman said she'd kill her, and now she has. And you must make her pay." He looked straight into his brother's eyes. "You must make her pay, Hassanein, swear it on the grave of our father!"
"No!" cried his wife. "It wasn't her! It was bin Musaid, that jealous, evil-minded murderer! It was him!"
Hassanein shot me a pain-filled glance. I didn't envy him his responsibility. He spent another few minutes calming Noora's parents, and then I led them out of the tent again.
Hassanein next wanted to speak to Suleiman bin Sharif. The young man entered the shaykh's tent and sat down on the sandy floor. I could tell that he was barely keeping himself under control. His eyes darted from one side to the other, and his fists clenched and unclenched in his lap.
"Salaam alaykum, O good one," said Hassanein. His eyes narrowed, and I saw that he was observing bin Sharif carefully.
"Alaykum as-salaam, O Shaykh," said the boy.
Hassanein paused for a long moment before he said anything more. "What do you know of this?" he asked at last.
Bin Sharif sat up straight, as if he'd been pricked. "What do I know of it?" he cried. "How should I come to know anything of this terrible thing?"
"That is what I must find out. How did you feel toward Noora bint Nasheeb?"
Bin Sharif looked from Hassanein to me and back again. "I loved her," he said flatly. "I suppose all the Bani Salim knew that."
"Yes, it was common knowledge. And do you think she returned your affection?"
He didn't hesitate. "Yes," he said. "I know it."
"But your marriage was impossible. Ibrahim bin Musaid would never allow it."
"God blacken the dog's face!" shouted bin Sharif. "God destroy his house!"
Hassanein held up a hand and waited until the young man calmed down again. "Did you kill her? Did you murder Noora bint Nasheeb, rather than see her belong to bin Musaid?"
Bin Sharif tried to answer, but no sound emerged. He took a breath and tried again. "No, O Shaykh, I did not kill her. I swear this upon the life of the Prophet, may the blessings of Allah be on him and peace."
Hassanein stood up and put a hand on bin Sharif s shoulder. "I believe you," he said. "I wish I could do something to lessen your grief."
Bin Sharif looked up at him with tormented eyes. "When you discover the murderer," he said in a low voice, "you must let me be the instrument of his destruction."
"I'm sorry, my son. That hard duty must be mine alone." It didn't look like Hassanein was looking forward to that responsibility, either.
Bin Sharif and I went back outside. Now it was Umm Rashid's turn. I went to her, but as I approached, she cowered away from me. "Peace be with you, O lady," I said. "The shaykh wishes to speak with you."
She stared at me in horror, as if I were an afrit. She backed away across the open ground. "Don't come near me!" she shrieked. "Don't talk to me! You're not of the Bani Salim, and you're nothing to me!"
"Please, O lady. Shaykh Hassanein wishes—"
She fell to her knees and began praying. "O my Lord! My trials and tribulations are great, and my sorrows and sufferings are deep, and my good deeds are few, and my faults lie heavily upon me. Therefore, my Lord, I implore Thee in the name of Thy greatness—"
I tried to raise her up, but she began screaming at me again and pummeling me with her fists. I turned helplessly to Hassanein, who saw my difficulty and came out of his tent. I stepped back, and Umm Rashid fell to her knees again.
The shaykh stooped and murmured to her. I could see her shake her head vigorously. He spoke to her again, gesturing with one hand. His expression was mild and his voice was pitched too low for me to hear his words. Again the woman shook her head. At last, Hassanein put his hand beneath her elbow and helped her to her feet. She began to weep, and he escorted her to her husband's tent.
He returned to his own tent and began gathering his coffee-brewing equipment. "Whom do you wish to speak to next?" I asked.
"Sit down, Shaykh Marîd," he said. "I'll make coffee."
"The only other real suspect is Ibrahim bin Musaid."
Hassanein acted as if he hadn't heard me. He poured a large handful of coffee beans into a small iron pan with a long handle. This he set on the glowing coals of the cooking fire his wife had built that morning. "If we get a good start in the morning," he said, "we should reach Khaba well by evening prayers tomorrow, inshallah."
I looked out at the camp, but I didn't see Friedlander Bey. The two young men were still digging the dead girl's grave. Some of the Bani Salim were standing nearby, arguing every aspect of the situation, but the rest had already returned to their tents or were seeing to the animals. Bin Musaid stood all by himself to one side, with his back still turned toward us, as if none of this affected him at all.
When the coffee beans had been roasted to Hassanein's satisfaction, he let them cool. He stood up and got a small goatskin bag and brought it back to the cook fire. "Here," he said, "my wife makes fresh laban for me every morning, no matter what happens." This was curdled camel's milk, sort of like yogurt.
I took the goatskin bag and murmured "Bismillah." Then I drank some, thinking how odd it was that everyone from my mother to Shaykh Hassanein tried to push curdled camel's milk on me. I really didn't like it very much, but I pretended to enjoy it out of respect for his hospitality.
I gave him back the bag, and he swallowed a little laban. By then, the coffee beans had cooled, and he put them in a brass mortar and crushed them with a stone pestle. He had two coffeepots; one was bright brass, shiny and polished, and the other was black with soot. He opened the sooty pot, which contained the leftovers of the morning's coffee, and dumped in the freshly ground beans. He added some water from another goatskin bag, and a pinch of powdered cardamom. Then he put the blackened pot in the fire, and carefully stirred the coffee until it boiled.
"Let us give thanks to Allah for coffee!" said Hassanein. He poured it from the black pot into the shiny pot, back into the black pot, and then into the shiny pot again. This let most of the coffee grounds settle and stay behind. Finally, he jammed a piece of hemp into the spout of the bright coffeepot to act as a filter.
"Il hamdu lillah!" he said. Praise be to God. He set out three
small coffee cups.
I took one of the cups. "May your table last forever, O Shaykh," I said.
He filled my cup, then looked up. "Ibrahim bin Musaid," he called. "Come! There is coffee!"
Bin Musaid turned and regarded us. His expression said that he didn't understand what the shaykh was doing. He walked slowly toward us. "O Shaykh," he said suspiciously, "don't you have more important duties?"
Hassanein shrugged. "There is time for everything. The Bani Salim have plenty of time. Now is the time for coffee. Be refreshed!" He gave one of the cups to the young man.
We drank a cup of coffee, and then another. Hassanein chatted idly about his favorite camel, whose feet had grown tender and probably wouldn't be able to carry him across the gravel plains to the south.
It's customary to drink three small cups of coffee, and then signal by waggling the empty cup that you've had enough. After the third cup, Hassanein sat back and looked at bin Musaid. The silence became thick and threatening. Finally, bin Musaid laughed out loud. "This is some trick, O Shaykh. You hope to shame me with your coffee and your hospitality. You think I'll clasp your knees and beg forgiveness of Allah. You think I murdered Noora."
He got to his feet and angrily threw the china coffee cup to the ground, where it shattered into scattered fragments. I saw Hassanein wince. "I've mentioned nothing to you about that," he said.
"Look elsewhere for your murderer, O Shaykh," said bin Musaid fiercely. "Look to your guest here, the infidel from the city. Maybe only he and Allah know the truth." He turned and strode off across the camp, disappearing into his own black tent.
I waited for Hassanein to speak. Several minutes passed, and he just sat outside his tent with a sour expression, as if he'd just tasted something rotten. Then, when my patience was about ended, he let out his breath in a heavy sigh. "We've learned nothing," he said sadly. "Nothing at all. We must begin again."
He got slowly to his feet, and I joined him. We crossed to where Hilal and bin Turki were digging in the ground. "A little deeper yet, O excellent ones," said Hassanein. "But when you've dug the grave, don't lay the poor girl in it."
"We should bury her soon," said bin Turki, looking up and shading his eyes with his hand. "The noble Qur'an—"
Hassanein nodded. "She'll be laid to rest before sunset, as the Wise Mention of God prescribes. But do not lower her into the ground until I tell you."
"Yes, O Shaykh," said Hilal. He glanced at bin Turki, who just shrugged. None of us had any idea what Hassanein had in mind.
"In the Hadhramaut, which is the shaykhdom in the heel of the boot of Arabia," said Hassanein, "a murderer is sometimes made to undergo a trial by fire. Of course, that's all superstition, and the value of such an ordeal is only as great as the belief in its power."
I saw that he was leading me out of the camp, toward the herd of camels. Young boys had scrambled up into the ghaf trees that grew in the narrow valleys between the dunes. They'd cut loose the tops of the trees, and the camels were grazing contentedly on the vegetation.
Hassanein continued with his story of justice in the Hadhramaut. "The ceremony always takes place in the morning, after the dawn prayers. The master of ordeals assembles the accused killer, the witnesses, the victim's family, and anyone else who has an interest in the matter. The master uses a knife blade which has been heated in a fire. When he decides that the knife is sufficiently hot, he makes the accused man open his mouth and stick out his tongue. The master wraps his own hand in his keffiya, and grasps the accused man's tongue. With his other hand, he takes hold of the fiery knife and strikes the man's tongue, first with one flat side and then the other."
"What's he point of that?" I asked.
Hassanein went to his favorite camel and patted her neck. "If the man is innocent, he'll be able to spit right then and there. The master usually gives him a couple of hours' grace, though. Then the accused man's tongue is examined. If it looks badly burned, then he's judged guilty. He'll be executed immediately, unless the victim's family accepts a reasonable blood-price. If there's no sign of burns, or only minor discoloration, the man is declared innocent and given his freedom."
I wondered what the shaykh was up to. He'd couched the camel and had begun saddling her. "And that's not the custom among the Bani Salim?"
Hassanein laughed. "We're not superstitious like the wild men of the Hadhramaut."
I thought the Bani Salim were plenty superstitious, but I didn't think it was wise to say anything. "Are you going on a journey?" I asked.
"No," said Hassanein. He threw two palm-fiber pads on the camel's back behind the hump, and then laid the wooden frame of his saddle over them. He tied the frame securely in place over the beast's withers, in front of the hump. Next he put a thick palm-fiber pad over the wooden frame, fitting it behind the hump and tying it with a string. This pad rose up high in the rear, and made a kind of uncomfortable backrest. Next, Hassanein draped a blanket over the pad, and then a heavy sheepskin over the blanket. He used stout woolen cords to hold everything firmly in place.
"Good," he said, stepping back and examining his handiwork. He grasped the camel's head rope, got her to stand up, and led her back into the middle of the camp.
"Do you know who the murderer is?" I asked.
"Not yet, but soon," he said. "I once listened to a man in Salala talk about how criminals are caught and punished in other countries." He shook his head ruefully. "I didn't think I'd ever need to try one of those methods."
"You're going to use this camel?"
He nodded. "You know, the Arabs aren't the only shrewd and clever people in the world. Sometimes I think our pride gets in the way of adopting ideas that might truly help us."
He brought the camel right up to the edge of the grave, where Hilal and bin Turki were scrambling up out of the hole. "I need the help of all three of you," said the shaykh, couching the camel again. He indicated the cloak-covered body of Noora.
"You want to put her in the saddle?" asked Hilal.
"Yes," said Hassanein. The three of us looked at one another, and then at the shaykh, but we bent and helped him lift the dead girl into place. He used some more cords to tie her securely, so that she wouldn't fall to the ground when the camel stood up. I didn't know what he was up to, but I thought it was pretty bizarre.
"Get up, Ata Allah," Hassanein murmured. His camel's name was "God's Gift." He gave her a little more urging and she complained, but slowly she rocked to her feet. The shaykh pulled on her head rope and began leading her around the broad circumference of the camp, beyond all the tents.
Hilal, bin Turki, and I watched in astonishment as Hassanein led the camel away. "Is this some custom of the Bani Salim?" I asked. "Like a moving wake, where the relatives stay in one place and the corpse does the traveling?"
"No," said bin Turki, frowning, "I've never seen the shaykh behave like this. Maybe he's been driven mad by the murder of his niece."
"Are there a lot of murders among the Bedu?" I asked.
The two young men looked at each other and shrugged. "As common as anywhere else, I guess," said bin Turki. "One tribe raids another, and men die. Blood must be avenged, and feuds begin. Sometimes the feuds last for years, decades, even generations."
"But there's rarely murder within a tribe, like this," said Hilal. "This is unnatural."
Hassanein called back over his shoulder. "Come, Shaykh Marîd, walk with me!"
"I don't understand what he's doing," said Hilal.
"I think he expects to figure out who the murderer is this way," I said. "I can't imagine how." I hurried after Ata Allah and her macabre burden.
By now, many of the Bani Salim were standing outside their tents, pointing at Hassanein and the camel. "My baby! My child!" shrieked Noora's mother. The woman flung herself away from her husband's grasp and ran stumbling in the path of the camel. She shouted prayers and accusations until she collapsed in tears to the ground. Nasheeb went to her and tried to help her to her feet, but she would not be comfor
ted. Noora's father stared down dumbly at his wife, then up at the bundled figure of his daughter. He didn't seem to know exactly what was going on.
Suleiman bin Sharif cut across the camp and intercepted us. "What are you doing? This is disgraceful!" he said.
"Please, O excellent one," said Hassanein, "you must trust me."
"Tell me what you're doing," bin Sharif demanded.
"I'm making sure everyone knows what happened to Noora, the light of our days."
"But there isn't anyone in the tribe who hasn't heard the news," said bin Sharif.
"Hearing the news is one thing. Seeing the truth is another."
Bin Sharif threw his hands up in disgust, and let the shaykh lead the camel on around the circle.
We came abreast of Umm Rashid's tent, and the old woman just shook her head. Her husband, who was indeed far too old to be dallying with any woman, poked his head out of the tent and whined to be fed. Umm Rashid mouthed a prayer in Noora's direction, then went inside.
When we'd gotten three-quarters of the way around, I saw that Ibrahim bin Musaid was watching us with an expression of absolute hatred. He stood like a statue carved from sandstone, turning only his head a little as we drew nearer. He said nothing as we passed him and came again to the grave Hilal and bin Turki had carved into the desert floor.
"Is it time to bury her now, O Shaykh?" I asked.
"Watch and learn," said Hassanein.
Instead of stopping, he led Ata Allah past the grave and started a second perambulation of the camp. A loud sigh went up from the Bani Salim who were watching us, who were just as bewildered as I was.
Noora's mother stood beside our path and shouted curses at us. "Son of a dog!" she cried, hurling handfuls of sand at Hassanein. "May your house be destroyed! Why won't you let my daughter have peace?"
I felt sorry for her, but Hassanein just went on, his face empty of expression. I didn't know what his reasoning was, but it seemed to me that he was being unnecessarily cruel. Nasheeb still stood silently beside his wife. He seemed to be more aware now of what was happening around him.
The Exile Kiss Page 11
