The scream rent the air a second time. He jumped up from where he lay, and without thinking ran towards the spot from which he heard the scream. It seemed to come from the middle of the field of maize, and to have been followed by a slight movement of the stalks around it. But now everything looked as still and as calm as it always had been, and the silence weighed heavily on the earth like the burning red rays of the sun throttling the slightest movement of the air before it even had a chance to stir.
As he came nearer, the field of maize split open suddenly at the same place. In the gap he saw two narrow, slit-like eyes appear for an instant, only to disappear a moment later. They vanished immediately as though the earth had opened to let them through, then quickly pulled them back into its depths, before he had the time to register what he had seen.
He thought he was dreaming. He watched his bare feet with the dark, cracked skin covering their heels walk slowly towards the spot in the middle of the field. His body shivered with some ancient, dark fear buried inside him. He tried to stop his feet, and for a moment it seemed as though they had come to a halt, and were no longer advancing across the field. But he soon realized that they continued to go forward at a steady pace, neither fast nor slow as though driven by a quiet, almost instinctive resolve to discover the unknown hidden somewhere ahead.
He pushed the maize stalks aside with his arms, and saw the body lying on the ground. All around it was a red-stained layer of dust and the wide-open staring eyes brought back a distant image of his mother lying dead on the ground. He put his hands around the face and moved it closer up, so that he could see her better. But the head was shaven like that of a man and she wore a man’s galabeya around her body. When he looked into her eyes, he felt they were not the eyes of his mother, nor of any human being he had seen in his life. The sight of these strange eyes made him step back in a movement of fright, but before he could cover his face with his hands, and block out the sight, he felt a pair of strong hands clamp down on his back. A babble of hoarse voices interspersed with ugly shouts resounded in his ears. He turned round, and the noise increased. The faces crowded around him, and their eyes were staring, but some time passed before he was able to recognize the narrow, slit-like eyes of the Chief of the Village Guard, Sheikh Zahran.
VII
All things seemed to move at the same slow, heavy pace. The red disc of the sun climbed down from the sky slow, ponderous and suffocating as it moved closer and closer to the earth before letting itself drop below the edge. The dark, plodding lines of peasants with their donkeys, cows and buffalo advanced in slow exhaustion over the dusty road to spill like a sticky fluid into the lanes and alleys leading to the houses and stables plunged in a sombre twilight. From the open doorways emanated the mixed odour of fermented manure, human excreta, and dough ready for baking. Before night enveloped the earth in its thick cloak all movement had ceased on the bank of the river, and neither man nor animal could any longer be seen on it. But the five-toed imprints of human feet, the flat rounded hoofs of donkeys, cows and buffalo could still be followed over the dusty trail interrupted now and then by the warm, rounded, freshly smelling clods of dung.
The body lying prostrate on the river bank however was no longer warm. The river breeze thrust against it gently, flapping over the thin, old, worn cloak, and lifting it off the cracked heels of what had once been the man Elwau.
A strong gust of wind pushed the cloak aside and uncovered the lower part of the body. Through his heavy sleep-laden lids, Haj Ismail glimpsed a long, hairy leg rising upwards to a full muscular thigh. He lifted his eyelids with an effort and awakened suddenly, as though a brick had dropped on his head, sat up with a jerk, and looked round, his eyes searching in different directions. When his right eye looked straight in front, his left eye seemed to look behind him, and when his left eye looked to the right, his right eye turned to the left. He had come into the world from his mother’s womb with a squint. It was as though for him each thing was split into two, or as though one single thing became two, for while one eye was viewing what he wished to see, the other was always struggling to be free.
He stood up, walked towards the body, and tugged at the edge of the cloak to cover the naked limb. His hand touched the hairy skin, and the swollen muscles underneath. A shiver went through his body. He retreated quickly to where he had been lying propped up against the river bank with the Chief of the Village Guard sleeping soundly by his side. He curled up and tried to fall asleep again, but the hairy muscular thigh kept coming and going before his eyes. While one of his eyes stared fixedly at it in fright, the other fled beneath his lid to hide. His mind went back to a time when he was only ten. His cousin Youssef was older and stronger than him. He had arms and legs covered in hair, and the muscles of his thighs looked like a swelling under the skin. When he saw them the first time he was seized with fright, and tried to run away, but his cousin had locked the door and there was no escape. He dodged this way and that, but Youssef caught him in an iron grip holding him by the back of his neck, threw him to the ground face downwards and wrenched his galabeya up over his buttocks. He felt the powerful, heavy body press down on him, and his nose hit the ground so that he could hardly breathe. After a while Youssef got up, opened the door and walked away. He lay there all day without moving, and when his father called out to him from the shop, he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. He heard his father’s footsteps approaching, and his angry voice calling out again and again. He opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out of his lips. A moment later a heavy fist landed on his back. He jumped to his feet and meekly followed behind his father to the shop at the corner of the lane where a few old cracked shelves carried packets of tea, or spice, or tobacco, and some cakes of soap.
His father taught him how to count the piastres, put them in the drawer, and then lock it with the key. He also taught him how to weigh tobacco on the balance by putting a piece in one pan, and a small weight in the other, so that the thick iron needle remained steady in the middle, and did not sway to one side.
Before closing the shop in the evening he would seat him on a bench next to him and teach him to give injections and open the abscesses of the people who came.
After the small Eid his father went on a pilgrimage to the Hejaz but never came back.* He left him the shop, and a small bag with a pair of pincers for extracting teeth, verses of the Koran made into amulets, needles for injection, a razor for circumcising, and a bottle of iodine which had long since dried up.
Lying on the river bank he felt a painful headache begin to throb at the back of his head. He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket, and tied it tightly around his head, then closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep, but just at that moment he saw a form which looked like some ghost approach the body where it lay on the river bank. He nudged the Chief of the Village Guard on the shoulder with his fist and said in a low voice, ‘Sheikh Zahran.’
The Chief of the Village Guard sprang to his feet and shouted out, ‘Who goes there?’
But no one answered.
He looked around carefully through his narrow, slit-like eyes but could see nothing, then started to walk in a wide circle round the dead body, shooting glances in different directions across the maize fields, or along the river bank and down its sloping side. Having failed to see anything which could hold his attention he returned to where the village barber sat cross-legged, but his eyes continued to shoot glances here and there into the night.
‘What was it, Haj Ismail?’ he asked.
‘I could swear I saw a man, Haj Zahran.’
‘Come on now! Go to sleep and leave matters in the hands of the Almighty God.’
‘But I saw him come close to the body.’
‘Who would think of stealing a body?’ ‘I tell you I saw him.’
‘Could you recognize who it was?’
‘No, I didn’t see him well enough.’
‘It must be the devil of Elwau hovering over him.’
�
�Devil? The only devils in this world are humans.’
He looked at the Chief of the Village Guard with one of his eyes and in a tone of feigned innocence asked, ‘Was it a devil that killed Elwau?’
The Chief of the Village Guard answered quickly, ‘No, it was Kafrawi.’
‘Kafrawi is not capable of killing a chicken, and you know that very well,’ said the village barber.
‘But when it’s a man’s honour that’s at stake, anyone can kill,’ said the Chief of the Village Guard heatedly.
‘You can tell that to the villagers, or to the officer who will conduct the inquest, but not to me,’ said Haj Ismail. ‘I see that this time you want to kill two birds with one stone. But speaking seriously, who is the killer this time?’
The Chief of the Village Guard gave a sharp laugh and then yawningly said, ‘Allah alone knows.’
Haj Ismail looked at him again with one eye. ‘You know them all without exception, and can name any one of them.’
This time it was the turn of Sheikh Zahran to put on an innocent air. ‘Now who can you be referring to, Haj Ismail?’ he said.
The village barber chuckled in a knowing way. ‘Whoever it is, the officer will be coming in the morning with the police dogs.’
‘Do you think dogs know better than human beings?’ asked the Chief of the Village Guard sarcastically. ‘Everyone says that Kafrawi killed Elwau because of Nefissa. As a matter of fact, quite a number of people saw him kneeling next to his body with blood on his hands. He is steeped in this crime from the top of his head to the bottom of his heels.’
The village barber chuckled again. ‘You are really the son of a devil, Sheikh Zahran.’
‘I am the obedient servant of him who gives us our orders.’ He yawned indifferently. ‘In fact, all of us are his obedient servants.’
‘All of us serve God.’
‘What matters is that we are all servants. No matter how high we rise, or how low we fall, the truth is that we are all slaves, serving someone.’
‘We are God’s slaves when it’s time to say our prayers only. But we are the Mayor’s slaves all the time.’
Sheikh Zahran’s eyes shone as he whispered in the ear of the village barber.
‘Do you know that he does not sleep the night because of Zeinab? I have done my best to convince her but she still refuses.’
‘Kafrawi must be encouraging her to refuse. Do you think he has started to become suspicious?’ queried the village barber.
The Chief of the Village Guard hastened to refute this possibility.
‘No, absolutely not. Suspicion requires that a man be endowed with a brain that can think. But these peasants! They have no brain, and when they do have one, it’s like the brain of a buffalo. The problem is that after Nefissa left, Kafrawi has no one to help in the house, or work in the fields except Zeinab. I’ve been telling him all the time that the Mayor will give him ten whole pounds for her work, that she will eat and drink in his house, and live in the kind of comfort she could never ever dream of. All she will have to do is sweep and clean the house, and she can go home at the end of the day’s work. But he won’t listen to me. His head is harder than stone.’
‘His daughter Zeinab is just as pig-headed as he is. I’ve done all I can to convince her, explained everything to her in detail, but she’s like a mule,’ said Haj Ismail. ‘I can’t see any advantages to her. There’s not a girl in Kafr El Teen who has not got more manners and more beauty than she has.’
Sheikh Zahran lowered his voice. ‘He’s got strange tastes where women are concerned, and if he likes a woman he can’t forget her. You know he’s pretty obstinate himself. Once he sets his eyes on a woman he must have her, come what may.’
Haj Ismail opened his mouth in a big, prolonged yawn. ‘Why not? People like him who live on top of the world, don’t know the word impossible.’
‘They walk over the earth like Gods.’
‘No, Sheikh Zahran, they’re Gods all right but they don’t walk, they ride in cars. Walking is for people like us.’
‘Walking only? You seem to forget that we also sleep on the ground.’
The Chief of the Village Guard curled himself up under his cloak and closed his eyes. Haj Ismail threw a last quick look at the body lying on the river bank before curling up under his cloak in turn. He murmured in a low voice, ‘What a shame. Elwau was really too young to die.’
The Chief of the Village Guard heard him and sighed. ‘Our lives are in God’s hands, Haj Ismail.’
‘Yes verily, that’s true. It’s Allah alone who decides when it’s time for us to leave this earth.’
And so they went to sleep with the firm knowledge that the life of people in Kafr El Teen depended on one God ever-present in their minds. They spent many an evening talking to him in front of the village barber’s shop, or on the terrace of his house overlooking the Nile. They knew that he burned with such a desire for Zeinab that only death could put an end to it. Sooner or later he was going to lay his hands on her, for like all Gods he believed that the impossible did not exist.
The noise of their snoring rose into the night from under the bank of the river where they had sought shelter. It travelled through the silent night to reach the ears of Metwalli as he lay hidden between the stalks of maize. He emerged out of the field and went straight towards the body. He advanced with wary steps, leaning on his right leg more heavily than he did on the left.
He had a characteristic way of walking, well-known by the inhabitants of Kafr El Teen, very much like a limping dog. An old childhood affliction of the bones had left him with one leg shorter than the other.
He emerged over the top of the river bank. The light of the moon shone down on him revealing a head which looked big compared with the body. His small eyes were buried in a swollen face, and his thick lips protruded under a thin nose. His lower lip hung down towards his chin, revealing its inner smooth belly, and his saliva drooled continuously over it on to the long beard.
If the children of the village had spotted him at this moment, they would have followed behind him shouting out in unison, ‘Here goes the idiot.’ One of them might even have thrown a stone at him, or pulled him by the edge of his galabeya. But he would have continued to walk, paying no attention to them, with the saliva streaming down from his mouth on to his chest, as he moved on, panting and limping like a stray dog. People would meet him moving through the lanes, his wet eyes gazing at the houses and the passers-by with a dull, unseeing look, his thick lips open and drooling the spit of his mouth as he went along. At the end of each day he could be seen sitting near the cemetery at the far end of the river bank, scratching his head and his body, or holding the lice between his fingers before he cracked them under his nails.
If one of the village women passed him by, she would throw him half a loaf of bread, or a corn cob, or a mulberry fruit, aiming it at his open lap. Sometimes she would touch him and say, ‘Give me your blessings, Sheikh Metwalli.’ Then he would stop scratching, or cracking his lice for a moment, stretch out his hand to her, and take hold of whatever part of her body his fingers happened to touch whether it be her shoulder, her hand, her leg, or any other part, squeeze it, and mutter a few unintelligible words as the white flow of saliva meandered down over his black beard.
It was said that a woman afflicted with paralysis had touched him and been cured, and that he had helped a blind man to regain his sight. He had been chosen by God, knew about sickness, and could penetrate the secrets of the future. Allah had bestowed his powers on him since Allah chose the weakest of all His creatures for His purposes. And so they called him Sheikh Metwalli.
But Haj Ismail, the village barber, chose to describe him as ‘the possessed one’; Sheikh Zahran, the Chief of the Village Guard, named him ‘the lousy one’; and the children addressed him as ‘Metwalli the idiot.’ As far as he was concerned, he was Metwalli, the son of Sheikh Osman, who used to recite verses of the Koran over the souls of the deceased buried in the cemetery. But Sh
eikh Osman was now dead, and all he had bequeathed him was his torn caftan, his turban, a bread basket empty of bread, and an old Koran with half its cover torn off.
Now he was advancing with much less of a limp than he put on when people were around. His eyes had a steady gaze which no one had seen in them before, and every now and then he turned round cautiously. His lower lip no longer hung down over his chin, and the saliva had ceased to flow out of his mouth. Any of the inhabitants of the village seeing him at this moment would not have recognized him.
He was moving towards the body where it lay on the river bank, covered with a cloak. Within a short distance of it, he dropped on his belly and started to crawl over the ground. Reaching the feet, he lifted the cloak, poked his head in underneath, and drew his body slowly up over the legs and thighs.
If the Chief of the Village Guard had happened to open his eyes at that moment, he would not have noticed any change. The cloak still covered the body in the same way. There might have been a very slight movement which rose and fell like some imperceptible wave, but it seemed to be more like a movement of the air than of anything else. Besides no other possibility would have occurred to the Chief of the Village Guard, nor to any man or woman of blood and flesh, or even to one of the devilish spirits that roam around in many places, especially those chosen by the living for the dead. For after all, what was lying on the river bank was no more than a body from which all life had fled, and who apart from the worms which burrow into everything could be interested in the dead?
God Dies by the Nile and Other Novels Page 7
