“No more than is usually said: that it is the land of perfection.”
“Haven’t you read any books about it or met any of those who have visited it?” I asked.
“No, there is nothing but hearsay.”
“And who will make the dream come true?”
“Man—none but man.”
I was tired of words, tired of enduring my sorrows, tired of lying hopes.
“There is no world for me,” I thought, “except this everlasting prison.”
In my perpetual prison, I found no benefit in the rational thinking of my master, Sheikh Maghagha, but I did find a certain ease to my despair in my mother’s naïve philosophy of predestination, as though it were a philosophy specially created for life imprisonment. I capitulated. “Let it be the will of God, for everything that comes to me is from Him.” I gave myself over to my fate. I buried my hopes. I bade final farewell to my past, my present, and my future. The sole remaining hope for a prisoner like myself was to kill hope, and to come to terms with the grave which had swallowed me, and to take to wife deep-rooted, all-controlling, and pervasive despair. Specters of the homeland, of my mother, of Arousa and the children, and of the land of Gebel followed one upon another. I became habituated to the turbid smell, for no smell existed except it; to the faint, semi-dark light, for there was no light in the universe except it; and to the ever-present insects, for they were in control of the place and had priority there, while pain and boredom were one’s constant companions. I went on drowning in depths that had no end. Silence reigned and torment was changed into a habit, and I derived from despair extraordinary power to endure and persevere. A voice would pierce through the wall of silence: “It is related of a prisoner of ancient times that he generated in himself such an extraordinary power that he was able to penetrate the prison wall, like a voice, and to fly in the air beyond all boundaries.”
My patience would accept this raving gladly, and after a day or a year another voice said, “War may break out between Haira and Halba. Then we shall once again ascend to the earth’s surface.”
So I forgive those on the earth’s surface who testified against me and I ask myself when, like the happy old man, I shall lose my senses. I descended into the depths step by step, so that time was lost, as the mainstays of life were lost, and history vanished. I became ignorant of what hour it was, what day, what month, what year: the appearances of times disappeared, my life became an enigma. I began growing older without limitation, without calculation, and there was no mirror in which to see myself, only my comrades to help me imagine how ugly and filthy I had become. Nobody knew happiness in our world except the vermin and insects. Doubtless eras, epochs, and ages were succeeding one another, while we savored the taste of extinction in its eternal sublimity.
And so it went on and on and on until a new arrival was hurled in amongst us. Like vermin we gathered round him, looking with amazement at the newcomer from the other world. Despite his great age and wretchedness it seemed to me that I was not seeing him for the first time. The old man had died a time ago, we knew not how long ago, and this person had come to replace him. He looked into our faces and wept.
“Don’t cry, man,” someone said, “for tears harm the vermin.”
“Who are you?” someone asked.
“I am the sage Daizing,” he answered mournfully.
I emerged from my everlasting trance and shouted in a strange voice, “Daizing…Daizing…How could I forget you!”
“And who are you?” he asked.
“I am your victim,” I called out, falling back into that time.
“We have found ourselves in the same calamity,” he said entreatingly.
“Not at all—we are not the same,” I shouted.
“The world has been turned upside down,” he called out. “The commander of the army has rebelled against the king and replaced him.”
Life crept back into my comrades and a tremor of enthusiasm emanated from them. “What is happening on the earth’s surface?” one of them inquired.
“The king’s men have been killed. As for me, I was condemned to life imprisonment.”
The empty sticks of men were filled with a new hope and cheers arose for the new god. As for me, I asked him savagely, “And don’t you remember me?”
“Who are you?” he asked fearfully.
“I am the owner of Arousa,” I exclaimed. “Do you remember me now?”
He backed away warily and lowered his head.
“What happened to her, you scoundrel?”
“We tried to make our escape in the caravan going to the land of Halba,” he said meekly, “but they arrested me, while she traveled on to Halba.”
“What about her children?”
“We had traveled together to Mashriq to look for them, but we found no trace of them. That happened a long time ago.”
While, like much else, I had forgotten my sorrows, my anger increased. “You are no sage,” I shouted. “Nothing but a vile scoundrel! You did not hesitate to trump up an accusation so as to steal my wife. To be done to death is too mild a punishment for you!”
The voice of the guard came down to me from an aperture in the ceiling, ordering me to keep away from him, so I went back to my place, my weak body collapsing under the sudden gush of life that had swept over it. I sat down on my pelt, with my back against the wall and my legs stretched out, taking in once again the movement of life and of history. I would have liked to ask him how long I had spent in prison, but I disliked the idea of continuing my conversation with him. However, he looked towards me and said sadly, “I’m sorry. I feel remorse for what I did.”
“The likes of you are not worthy of remorse,” I said bitterly.
“I had my punishment,” he said in the same tone, “by living with a woman who didn’t for a moment stop hating me.” Then, as though talking to himself: “For twenty years she did not change the feelings of her heart.”
Twenty years! A life lost! The answer came to me with the cutting cruelty of the blade of a dagger. Here was the traveler sinking down into his middle forties. One day he would die in this tomb having achieved no goal, enjoyed no pleasure, performed no duty. My depression was further increased by having this scoundrel with me in the tomb to remind me of the setbacks I had suffered, my bad luck, and my failure to achieve my goals. As for my comrades, they became ablaze with a new hope, all of them expecting that at any moment a comprehensive pardon would be issued. In fact their hopes did not go unanswered, for one day the governor of the prison came and said, “The will of the new god has required that a general pardon be issued for the victims of the deposed and false king.”
We all stood up and shouted our good wishes and support for the king. We left the prison—all, that is, except for Daizing. Outside, the light of day was painful after the long darkness, so we shielded our eyes with the palms of our hands. An officer took me to the central office for foreigners, where the manager said, “We are sorry for the injustice that you have suffered and which is at odds with the principles and laws of the land of Haira. It has been decided to return your property to you—except for the slave girl, who has left the country.”
I at once made my way to the public baths, where they shaved the hair off my head and body and where I washed with warm water and anointed myself from head to foot with balsam oil to rid myself of the bugs and vermin. I then went to the inn of the foreigners, looking forward to an emotional meeting with Ham. It appeared, though, that the man had died and that he had been replaced by someone called Tad, who was his cousin and had married his daughter. A truly emotional meeting did take place, though not between Ham and me but between me and myself in the mirror. I saw there Qindil the middle-aged man, resurrected from the grave after being buried there for twenty years: a clean-shaven middle-aged man, thin and lackluster, with sunken eyes, a gloomy complexion, lifeless look, and prominent cheekbones. I immediately decided to stay on in Haira in order to regain my health, strength, and inner harmony. I w
ent off for a walk, not with the object of seeing what was new but in order to get my legs back into training.
I began to ask myself what I should do: Should I return to my homeland, content simply with returning though without anything to show for my journey? Or should I continue on my voyage of exploration, rapping on the doors of fate? I disliked the idea of returning home in this state of desolate failure. My heart told me that back home I was considered dead, and that no one awaited me or was concerned about my return—that is, if death had not already overtaken them and torn out their roots and sown strangeness and estrangement in their place. No, I would not return. I would not look backwards. I had started as a traveler and as a traveler I would continue on my way. It was both decision and destiny, both vision and action, both beginning and end. To the land of Halba and thence beyond, right to the land of Gebel. I wonder, Arousa, how you look today, a woman in your forties.
4
The Land of Halba
As in days past the caravan moved off with unhurried majesty. We plunged into the gentle darkness of dawn, not this time to drink deeply of poetry but to relive the blows from memories of prison, the sorrows of a wasted life. When I saw the shapes of my companions, it was a new generation of traders that I was viewing, but energy still persisted, wealth increased, and honor and glory still stalked the adventurous. As for the dreamers, perplexity was for them. My former failures passed before me: the moment I had quit my homeland, mourning Halima, the moment I had been turned out of Mashriq, weeping for Arousa, and the moment I had said farewell to Haira, bemoaning the loss of happiness and youth. I became aware of the east and saw it surging with red rosewater, while the face of the sun, as had been its habit throughout these past twenty years, swelled forth. The desert revealed itself as endless, and summer unloaded its heat. We continued our journey for about a month. At one of the rest stops I asked the owner of the caravan about al-Qani ibn Hamdis, and he said, “God rest his soul.” I then asked about Sheikh Maghagha al-Gibeili, but he had not heard of him, nor had any of the traders in the caravan.
We made camp at Shama, preparatory to entering Halba. My hair and beard had begun to grow and healthy blood was again running in my veins. We continued on our way until we saw the great walls in the lunar light.
The director of customs advanced towards us. He wore a light jacket suited to the mild summer weather. “Welcome to Halba,” he said joyfully, “the capital of the land of Halba, the land of freedom.”
I was amazed to hear the accursed word wherever I went; I was amazed too that his words were devoid of any warning note, declared or hidden.
“The first land to welcome the newcomer without a warning,” I said to the owner of the caravan.
“It’s the land of freedom,” he answered, laughing, “but as a foreigner your security lies in being on your guard.”
They took me off to the inn for guests. On the way, under the light of the moon, the city’s landmarks were scattered in a grandeur that suggested a new panorama. So too did the great number of sedan chairs coming and going in the light of flares at such a late hour. The entrance to the inn stood erect, broad, and tall under a roofed gallery from which hung candelabra that dazzled the eyes. The building itself looked high and vast, beautifully and richly constructed. My room gave me another surprise, with its blue walls, sumptuous carpet, raised brass bedstead with its embroidered coverings, and other things usually to be found only in upper-class houses in my homeland. It disclosed to me eloquently a civilization without doubt very many degrees superior to that of Haira. I found myself wondering where and how Arousa was now living. Before I had immersed myself in my memories, I was paid a visit by a middle-aged man wearing a blue jacket and short white trousers. “Qalsham,” he said to me, smiling, “the manager of the inn.”
I introduced myself to him and he inquired politely if there was anything he could do for me.
“Nothing before I go to sleep now,” I said frankly, “except to let me know the rates for staying here.”
“Three dinars the night,” he said, smiling.
I was horrified at the figure and told myself that everything in Halba appeared to enjoy freedom, including the prices. As usual, I paid for ten nights in advance.
I went to bed, and not since leaving my homeland did I enjoy so welcoming a one. I rose early and breakfast was brought to me in my room; it consisted of bread, milk, cheese, butter, honey, and eggs. I was astonished by both the quality and the quantity of the food and was ever more convinced that I was visiting a new and exciting world. Leaving the room, I was stirred by heartfelt longings and by the hope that I might also come across Arousa, so that destiny’s game might be completed. Qalsham met me at the entrance to the inn. “Sedan chairs are available to the traveler for seeing the important sights,” he said.
I thought a while, then said, “I’d like to start on my own and take it as it comes.”
From the first instant I felt I was in a city so large that the individual melted into anonymity. In front of the inn was a vast square, on the surrounds of which stood buildings and shops; at the far end, in the middle, there was a bridge across a river leading to a small square from which large streets branched out, stretching away endlessly, their sides bordered by buildings and trees. Where was I bound for? Where was Arousa to be found? How could I proceed without a guide? I allowed my feet to lead me freely in this city of freedom, and I was enchanted by all that met my gaze at every step. A network of streets without beginning or end, rank upon rank of buildings: houses, palaces, shops as numerous as the desert sands exhibiting countless varieties of goods, factories, places of business, and places of entertainment. There were numerous parks of every kind and description, and endless streams of men and women and sedan chairs: the rich and the great, and the poor too, though these were several degrees better off than the poor of Haira and Mashriq; and not a street without a mounted policeman. The clothes of the men and the women were varied, and beauty and elegance were much in evidence. Modesty was to be found alongside emancipation that was close to nakedness, while seriousness and gravity went hand in hand with gaiety and simplicity. It was as if I were meeting for the first time human beings who had their own existence, their significance, their pride in themselves. But how could a person hope to come across Arousa in this raging sea without shores? I walked, grew tired, and rested in the parks, feeling all the time that I had not yet started. I regretted that I had not taken one of the sedan chairs for travelers that Qalsham had mentioned.
However, I saw two interesting incidents. The first was an isolated incident in a public park, when I saw policemen questioning some people; I then learned that the gardener had come across the body of a murdered woman in a corner of the park. Similar things often occur everywhere. The second thing I saw, though, aroused my disconcerted astonishment: the passing of a demonstration of men and women shouting their demands, while the police followed them without interfering in any way. I recollected a similar demonstration I had witnessed in my homeland, which was on its way to the Sultan to complain about increased taxes and the straitened material situation. But this demonstration was demanding legal recognition of homosexual relations. I could believe neither my eyes nor my ears. I was convinced I was going around in a strange world and that a vast chasm separated me from it, and I was overcome by fear of the unknown. Noontime approached and the temperature rose to its highest. Nonetheless, Halba’s summer was bearable. I was asking the way back to the inn when a voice rang out with the words “God is greatest!”
My heart jumped violently, kindling a fire in my senses. Good Lord, this was a muezzin giving the call to prayers! Did this mean that Halba was a Muslim country? Guided by the direction of the voice, I rushed off until I found a mosque at the entrance to a street. I had not heard such a sound or seen such a sight for a quarter of a century. I was being born anew, and it was as though I were discovering God for the first time. I entered the mosque, made my ablutions, and, taking my place in the ranks of those
praying, I performed the noon prayer with a glowing joy, a tearful eye, and a happy heart. When the prayers were over the people left, but I stood pinned to the ground till there was no one left in the mosque but the imam and I. I hurried towards him and clasped him in my arms, kissing him on both cheeks warmly. He submitted to my enthusiasm, quietly smiling, then muttered, “Welcome, stranger.”
We sat down not far from the mihrab and introduced ourselves. He was Sheikh Hamada al-Sabki, a true native inhabitant of Halba. Breathlessly, my voice shaking, I said, “I didn’t imagine that Halba was a Muslim country.”
“Halba is not a Muslim country,” he said gently. Having read my astonishment, he added, “Halba is a free country. All religions are to be found in it. It has Muslims, Jews, Christians, and Buddhists; in fact it also has atheists and pagans.”
“How has this come about, Master?” I asked, my astonishment increased.
“Halba was originally heathen,” he said simply, “and its state of freedom gave to all who wanted it the opportunity of propagating their religion. The various religions spread among its people, so that today there is only a minority of heathens in some of the oases.”
“What religion does the state observe?” I asked with increasing interest.
“The state has nothing to do with religion.”
“How, then, are the different creeds and sects reconciled?”
“All are treated on the basis of complete equality,” he said simply.
“And are they content with that?” I asked him, as though remonstrating against it.
“Every faith preserves within itself its own traditions, and mutual respect rules social relations, no distinction being given to any one faith, even if the head of state is of it. Talking of which, I would inform you that our present head is heathen.”
An astonishing and thought-provoking country!
The Journey of Ibn Fattouma Page 6
