Zakeya did not see what had happened. She could not tell whether the tram was moving or had come to a stop. She closed her eyes in an attempt to prevent her head from going round and round. When she opened her eyes again her body was shaking with the movement of the tram. Zeinab was sitting next to her, and in front of her was a small window through which she could see the street full of people walking up and down. She could also glimpse the tall buildings on one side. Many of them were covered with huge posters showing almost naked women, lying down, or sitting or standing with their legs apart. In front of them there were always gentlemen and they all carried pistols. She felt that something had happened in the tram, clasped Zeinab’s hand tightly by the fingers and enquired, ‘What’s the matter?’
‘The old man,’ said Zeinab, ‘fell under the wheels of the tram and has gone to the Kasr El Aini Hospital instead of El Sayeda.’
Zakeya gestured with her hand as though pointing to something going on outside the window of the tram way up in the sky. ‘Only Allah is all-powerful, my child. Is the world here mad, or is it your Aunt Zakeya who has lost her mind?’
‘May Allah make you whole and keep your mind as good as it has always been. Thanks be to Allah you are all right, my Aunt, and Allah will make you even better after you have visited El Sayeda.’
‘Blessed you will always be, our lady,’ murmured Zakeya.
XIII
The bodies of Zakeya and Zeinab seemed to become one with the compact mass of human flesh which flowed into El Sayeda Zeinab mosque filling it up and overflowing to the area around, the narrow streets which led to it, the main thoroughfare traversed by the trams that came and went and the big square to which it led. It was a mass composed of human bodies all wearing long galabeyas. The women could be distinguished from the men by the black shawls they wore over their heads. The myriad throng walked barefoot, their toes big and flat, their heels dark and cracked, the palms of their hands rough and horny with a groove made in the middle by the hoe, or the plough or the tambour.* The faces were pale, and drawn, and thin, the eyes black and big, wide open with wonder, or half closed in a kind of stupor or daze, the mouths gaping in one big gasp which took in the air and kept it inside.
Zakeya held on tightly to Zeinab’s hand, and she stuck so closely to her that she almost walked in her steps, afraid that the slightest distance between them, even if only a hair’s breadth, might lead to her getting lost in this mighty human ocean. But as they moved along somehow people managed to slip between them and in the flash of an eye Zakeya lost sight of Zeinab. Yet for some obscure reason she no longer felt afraid, or alone. Everything around her was now familiar, known, lived before. The galabeyas dropping down over people’s bodies were like her galabeya, and the sweat of their bodies had the same odour as her sweat. The faces, the feet, the toes, the way they walked, and stared and spoke were things she shared in common with them. She was a part of this compact mass of human bodies, and it was like a part of her.
She was no longer afraid and her eyes ceased to search among the crowds for Zeinab. For all the faces she saw were like Zeinab’s, and all the voices she heard reminded her of Zeinab’s voice. Even the words, the way they pronounced them, their very intonation, the lifting of hands to the heavens, the single unchanging cry, ‘O God, come to our rescue, O God’ chanted out in one voice, made her feel that all these people were Zeinab.
They were sick or blind. They were young or old. They were children or babes in arms. They were sheikhs of sects, or beggars or thieves. They were sorcerers, and fortune-tellers, people who made amulets or recited religious chants. They were saints of God, intermediaries to His Grace, guardians of the doors to Heaven. All of them like Zakeya and Zeinab raised the palms of their rough hands in one uniform movement to Allah on high and chanted in one voice, in one breath, ‘O God.’
Zeinab too had ceased looking for Zakeya. Her face was now only one of the innumerable faces, a drop in the human ocean, a single garment amongst a million robes, an invisible particle in the infinite universe, a pair of hands lifted to the heavens amidst a forest of hands fluttering in the wind, a voice joined to myriad voices in one prolonged, imploring chant, more like a wail of despair than anything else. ‘O God, come to our rescue.’ The voice of Zakeya too pierced through her lips in a high-pitched shriek which rose from her inner depths, like the cry from a slaughtered neck, or the gasp of a wounded chest.
Zeinab’s heart was beating wildly as she cried out ‘O God.’ It seemed to leap against her ribs, and shake her small breasts under the bodice of her long robe. Her eyes shone with a mysterious gleam like moonlight on a dark, silent stream. She shivered every now and then with a strange fever hidden in her depths, and the blood rose to her face in a virginal flush as though this was the first time her heart had beaten for anyone.
So she cried out ‘O God’ and with every cry she felt she came closer to Him, so that now He could hear her voice and feel her breath on Him. She, too, could hear His Voice and feel His Breath. Her body had become one with Him, and she shivered with a sudden fear which was more like a deep sorrow, with a feeling of relief more like deep pleasure. She wanted to weep, to shriek with joy, to close her eyes and abandon herself to Him, to savour to the end this feeling of relief, of a body no longer under tension, of a deep pleasure she had never experienced before. But somehow deep inside her there remained a fearful sadness, an exhaustion, an anxiety which prevented her from sleeping, or even from just closing her eyes. So there she sat through the long hours with wide-open staring eyes, almost unaware of what went on around her.
But suddenly she heard someone call out her name, ‘Zeinab!’ She realized at once that it was the voice of God. She had called out to Him all through the night and now He was calling out to her in turn. She whispered ‘O God’ and He answered ‘Zeinab.’ She moved towards the voice as though in a dream. She did not know whether she was walking on legs, or flying on wings. The compact mass of bodies around her, the myriad voices resounding in her ears fell back, and disappeared, leaving an empty space in which echoed one voice calling out ‘Zeinab.’ She saw a face emerge in front of her from what might have been a thick mist, or a dense cloud of smoke. It was not the face of a man, nor that of a woman. It was not the face of a young child or of an old person. It was a face without sex or age, like that of Om Saber. Instead of the black shawl she wore, the head was covered in a huge white turban which reached down midway to the eyebrows concealing the dark pitted skin over the upper half of the forehead. The skin of the face also was blotched and pitted as though the old smallpox had left its marks. The eyes were small without lashes, or even lids. Just two dark holes staring unmovingly at Zeinab.
‘Are you Zeinab, daughter of Kafrawi?’ the voice said.
She gasped out a frightened ‘Yes.’ Deep inside her another voice asked, ‘How did he recognize me amidst all these people?’ But another voice replied almost immediately, ‘Praise be to Allah, for He knows all things.’
‘Where is your aunt, Zakeya?’ asked the man.
And the voice echoed inside her again. ‘He also knows that my aunt’s name is Zakeya. It’s amazing…’
She looked round trying to find out where her aunt had gone. She could see her nowhere. But after a short while she realized that Zakeya’s hand was still tightly clasped around hers, and that her shivering body was pressed closely up against her. She could hear her muttering verses and words under her breath.
The man came close to Zakeya, put out his dark, gnarled hand to the neck of her galabeya, took hold of the amulet she was wearing between his fingers, and took it off her neck. He recited a few verses, paused for a moment, and then put it back around her neck. Zakeya followed what he was doing intently, with an expression of deep reverence in her eyes, as though she was about to kneel and prostrate herself at his feet. As soon as his hand was still, she bent over and pressed her lips to it with a passionate fervour, muttering to herself. The man abandoned his dark, gnarled hand to her, and turned to Zei
nab.
‘Your aunt Zakeya is sick. She is sick because you have continued to disobey Allah, and she has encouraged you to do that. But Allah is all merciful, and kind, and He will forgive both of you on condition that you obey, and do what He asks of you. He will cure her of all sickness, if He so will, blessed be His Name on high.’
They raised their hands to the heavens and chanted in one breath, ‘We thank, and praise Thee. For Thou art the generous and the bountiful one, O God.’
‘You are to spend the night in the bosom of El Sayeda,’ said the man. ‘Then tomorrow before dawn you are to start out for Kafr El Teen. There bathe yourselves with clean water from the Nile, and while you wash continue to recite the testimony. Once dressed you should do your prayers. Start with the four ordained prostrations, then follow them with the four Sunna* prostrations. After that you are to repeat the holy verse of the Seat ten times. On the following day, before dawn, Zeinab is to take another bath with clean water from the Nile, meanwhile repeating the testimony three times. Then do her prayer at the crack of dawn. Once this is over she is to open the door of your house before sunrise, stand on the threshold facing its direction and recite the first verse of the Koran ten times. In front of her she will see a big iron gate. She is to walk towards it, open it and walk in. She must never walk out of it again until the owner of the house orders her to do so. He is a noble and great man, born of a noble and great father, and he belongs to a good and devout family blessed by Allah and His Prophet. During this time Zakeya should lead the buffalo to the field, tie it to the water-wheel, take her hoe and work until the call to noon prayers. As soon as she hears it she should put down her hoe and pray the four ordained prostrations, followed by the four Sunna prostrations. After her prayers are over she must remain in the kneeling position and recite the opening verse of the Koran ten times, then raise her hands to the heavens, and repeat “Forgive me, O God” thirty times. As soon as she is over with this she is to get up, and wipe her face in the palms of her hand, and, God willing, she will find herself completely cured.’
Zakeya bent low over the dark gnarled hand and pressed her lips to it fervently, as she whispered, ‘I do thank and praise Thee, O God. I do thank and praise Thee, O God.’
While this was going on Zeinab had kept repeating verses of praise and thanks to God. She was so overcome with holy bliss that she forgot to give the man the ten piastre coin as Haj Ismail had instructed her to do. But the man himself now asked her for it. She undid the knotted corner of her shawl with a hand which was still trembling, extracted the coin, gave it to him and kissed his hand as though she was making the offering to God. Deep inside her a voice kept whispering in wonderment, ‘O God, he knows Kafr El Teen and our house, and the iron gate which stands in front of it.’
The man disappeared into the crowd as rapidly as he had emerged, leaving Zakeya and Zeinab standing where they were, huddled up against each other in a state of wonderment, and profound humility. Now and again they would look at one another questioningly, as though to reassure themselves that what had happened was real, and not a figment of their imagination, that they had really heard the voice of God, and even seen Him, or at least seen one of His messengers, or saints to whom had been revealed the secrets which were not revealed to others. Zakeya felt her body was now lighter than it had ever been before. The iron grasp which seemed to throttle her all the time had loosened a little. She no longer had to lean on her niece Zeinab, for her legs had regained their strength, and could carry her easily.
Zeinab’s eyes became wider and wider with amazement when she noticed her aunt walking beside her as though she could easily manage on her own.
‘Aunt, you are better already,’ she said in a low voice, full of reverence. ‘Look how you are walking!’
And the old woman responded, ‘My body no longer feels heavy. O God, verily Thou art generous and bountiful.’
‘God is great,’ said Zeinab. ‘Did I not tell you many a time that Allah would help us, and that you should pray to Him, and be patient?’
‘Yes, my child, you always used to say that to me.’
‘I disobeyed God and refused to pray, and so did you, Aunt Zakeya.’
‘I did not refuse to pray. It was the evil spirit dwelling within which refused.’
‘God willing the evil spirit will be driven out of your body when we do what He has ordained.’
‘Do you remember all that the sheikh said?’ asked Zakeya. ‘My body kept shaking, and I am unable to recall his words. I’m afraid we might forget something.’
‘Don’t worry about anything. Every word he said is engraved here in my heart.’
‘May God bless you,’ said Zakeya fervently.
_________
* A primitive water-wheel turned by hand.
* Islamic jurisprudence, used to develop and explain Islamic teachings embodied in the Koran and the sayings of the Prophet Mohamed. The four prostrations mentioned here are not considered canonical but only optional. Practised as an additional rite, they testify to greater religious fervour and should bring more blessings.
XIV
And so that morning before dawn, Zeinab lifted the earthenware jar high up and poured clean Nile water from it over her head and body. She rubbed her breasts with it, whispering ‘I testify that there is no Allah except Allah, and that Mohamed is the prophet of Allah’ three times. The water flowed down over her belly and thighs, and she rubbed them in turn, reciting the testimony three times. She dried her long, black hair, plaited it tightly, dressed in a clean galabeya, wound the black shawl around her head and shoulders and advanced with frightened, hesitant steps towards the door, before pushing it slowly wide open.
The crimson rays of dawn started to appear above the horizon but the sun had not yet risen in the sky. She fixed her eyes on the spot from which she knew it would rise, and read the first verse of the Koran in a soft voice, repeating it ten times. Then she walked towards the iron gate. She was still frightened, but now her steps were steady, very steady. When she arrived at the gate a shiver went through her body. It was no longer a shiver of fear or doubt, but of deep exaltation. Now she knew what it was that she had to do. Her heart beat fast, her chest breathed full, her body was taut with expectation. Her legs trembled under the long galabeya and her large black eyes were raised to the sky, watching for something extraordinary to appear, for the will of God to be fulfilled.
The blue eyes of the Mayor opened wide with wonderment when he saw her appear. From her face and her eyes, from the way she walked with her head held high, he realized at once that she was Zeinab. He rubbed his eyes and looked at her again speaking in a voice which expressed surprise.
‘Who sent you, Zeinab?’
‘It is Allah Who has sent me,’ she said.
‘But why did you come this time?’
‘Because it is the will of God,’ she said as though speaking to herself.
The Mayor smiled, got out of bed and went to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth, washed, then looked at his face in the mirror and smiled again. The laughter was welling up inside him. Speaking to himself in an undertone, he said, ‘Devil, son of a devil. What a cunning rogue you are, Haj Ismail!’
When he had finished he came out of the bathroom, and started to look for his watch. He found it on a small table. Its hands were pointing to six o’clock. He grinned and whispered to himself, ‘No woman has ever come to me so early in the morning. I must drink a cup of tea first. It will wake me up.’
Zeinab was still standing where he had left her. He walked up to her, and in a voice one would use when speaking to a child, said, ‘Listen to me, Zeinab. I want a cup of tea. Do you know how to make tea?’
‘Yes, my master,’ she said in a tone of voice anxious to please.
‘Come with me. I will show you the way to the kitchen. I want you to prepare tea for me while I have a bath.’
Zeinab gasped in wonder when she saw the white porcelain wash basins, the shining metal taps, the coloured walls,
the curtains and the stove that lit so easily. She lost herself in contemplation of the kettle which blew a whistle when the water boiled, the cups with engravings and coloured paintings, the silver spoons. Everything around her was new, never seen before, as though she had been transported to another world. She felt that she was now in the kingdom of Allah, praised be His name and revered. Her fingers trembled every time she held something between them. Her heart was beating rapidly, her breast heaved up and down, and her legs kept shaking all the time.
A tea-cup slipped through her fingers and dropped on the floor. She clapped her hand over her chest and shrank to the wall breathing hard, her eyes fixed on the shattered fragments of the cup as though she had committed a terrible crime. The pieces of porcelain shone like coloured crystals over the milk-white floor. The Mayor was enjoying his warm shower when he heard the sound of the cup as it struck the ground followed by a loud, terrified gasp. He smiled as his hand rubbed slowly over his chest and belly with a cake of perfumed soap. He thought, ‘How exciting these simple girls are, and how pleasant it is to take their virgin bodies into one’s arms, like plucking a newly opened rose flower. How I hate the false sophistication of Cairo women, like my wife with her brazen eyes. Nothing any longer intimidates or thrills her. Her frigid body no longer quivers when I caress her, or hold her tight, or even bite her.’
He came out of the bathroom wearing pink silk pyjamas and walked to the kitchen. He found Zeinab still standing shrunk up against the wall, with her hand on her breast, her lips slightly parted as though she were out of breath, and her eyes fixed on the shattered fragments of porcelain which just a moment ago had been a beautiful cup worth much more than she would ever know.
God Dies by the Nile and Other Novels Page 11
