He pushed the Sheikh’s door, met no resistance, entered, closed it behind him, and found himself in the open courtyard where the palm tree towered, as if stretched upward into space as high as the watchful stars. What a superb place for hiding, he thought. The Sheikh’s room was open at night, just as it was by day. There it stood, pitch-black, as if waiting for his return, and he walked toward it quietly. He heard the voice muttering but could only distinguish the word “Allah,” “God!” It went on muttering as if the Sheikh were unaware or perhaps reluctant to acknowledge his presence.
Said withdrew into a corner at the left of the room close to his pile of books and flung himself down on the rush mat, still in his suit and shoes and carrying his revolver. He stretched out his legs, supporting his trunk on the palms of his hands, his head falling back in exhaustion. His head felt like a beehive, but there was nothing he could do.
You wish to recall the sound of the bullet and the screams of Nabawiyya, feeling happy again that you did not hear Sana scream. You’d better greet the Sheikh, but your voice is too weak to say “Peace be upon you!” There’s this feeling of helplessness, as if you were drowning. And you thought you were going to sleep like a log as soon as your skin touched the floor!
How the righteous and God-fearing would have shuddered, turned away from him in fright—until recitation of the name of God had made them less particular, less hard of heart. When would this strange man go to sleep? But the strange old man now raised his voice and began to sing: “In my view, passion is nothing but ingratitude unless it issues from my witnesses.” And in a voice that seemed to fill the room, he said, “The eyes of their hearts are open, but those in their heads are closed!” Said smiled in spite of himself. So that’s why he is not aware of my presence. But then I, too, am not fully aware of my own self.
The call to the dawn prayers rose above the quiet waves of the night. It reminded him of a night he’d once spent sleepless until the same call to the dawn prayers, excited over some special joy promised for the following day. On that occasion, he’d got up as soon as he heard the call, happy at release from a night of torment, had looked out of the window at the blue dawn and the smiling sunrise, and had rubbed his hands in anticipation of whatever it was he’d been about to enjoy, something he had since completely forgotten. And therefore he loved the dawn, which he associated with the singing of the prayer call, the deep blue sky, the smile of the approaching sunrise, and that unremembered joy.
It was dawn now, but his exhaustion was so great he could not move, not even to shift his revolver. The Sheikh rose to perform his prayers. Showing no awareness of Said’s presence, he lit the oil lamp, spread out the prayer mat, took up his position on it, then suddenly asked, “Aren’t you going to perform the dawn prayers?”
Said was so tired he was incapable of giving an answer, and no sooner had the Sheikh begun his prayers than he dropped off to sleep.
He dreamt that he was in jail, being whipped despite his good conduct, screaming shamelessly, but not offering any resistance. They gave him milk to drink. Suddenly he saw little Sana lashing Rauf Ilwan with a whip at the bottom of a staircase. He heard the sound of a Koranic recitation and had the impression that someone had died, but then he found himself, a wanted man, somehow involved in a car chase! The car he was driving was incapable of speed—there was something wrong with its engine—and he had to begin shooting in every direction. Suddenly, Rauf Ilwan appeared from the radio in the dashboard, grabbed his wrist before Said was able to kill him, and tightened his grip so mercilessly that he was able to snatch the revolver. At this point Said Mahran said to him, “Kill me if you wish, but my daughter is innocent. It wasn’t she who whipped you at the bottom of the staircase. It was her mother, Nabawiyya, at the instigation of Ilish Sidra.” Escaping his pursuers, Said then slipped into the circle of Sufi chanters gathered around Sheikh al-Junaydi, but the Sheikh denied him. “Who are you?” he asked. “How did you come to be with us?” He told him he was Said Mahran, son of Amm Mahran, his old disciple, and reminded him of the old days, but the Sheikh demanded his identity card. Said was surprised and objected that a Sufi disciple didn’t need an identity card, that in the eyes of the mystical order the righteous and the sinner were alike. When the Sheikh replied that he did not like the righteous and wanted to see Said’s identity card to make sure that Said was really a sinner, Said handed him the revolver, explaining that every missing bullet meant a murder, but the Sheikh insisted on seeing his card; the government instructions, he said, were stringent on this point. Said was astounded: why did the government interfere with the affairs of the order? he asked. The Sheikh informed him that it had all resulted from a suggestion by their great authority Rauf Ilwan, who had been nominated for the post of Supreme Sheikh. Stunned with amazement for the third time, Said protested that Rauf was nothing but a traitor who had only criminal thoughts, and the Sheikh retorted that that was why he’d been recommended for this responsible position. He added that Rauf had promised to offer a new exegesis of the Holy Koran, giving all possible interpretations, so as to benefit each man according to his purchasing power; the money this beneficent move would bring in would be invested in setting up clubs for shooting, hunting, and committing suicide. Said declared that he was prepared to act as treasurer for the new Exegesis Administration and that Rauf Ilwan would no doubt testify to his integrity as one of his brightest former pupils. At that point the Sheikh intoned the opening chapter of the Koran, lanterns were suspended from the trunk of the palm tree, and a reciter chanted, “Blessed be ye, O people of Egypt, our lord Husayn is now yours.”
When he opened his eyes the whole world looked red, empty and meaningless. The Sheikh sat in repose, everything about him, from his loose garment to his skullcap and beard, a shiny white, and at Said’s first movement the Sheikh turned his gaze on him. Said sat up hurriedly and looked apologetic, assailed by memories that rushed into his mind like roaring flames.
“It is now late afternoon,” said the Sheikh, “and you haven’t had a bite of food.”
Said looked first at the hole in the wall, then at the Sheikh, and muttered absentmindedly, “Late afternoon!”
“Yes. I thought to myself: Let him sleep. God presents His gifts as His will alone decides.”
Said was suddenly troubled. He wondered if anybody had seen him asleep there all day. “I was aware of many people coming in while I was asleep,” he lied.
“You were aware of nothing. But one man brought me my lunch, another came to sweep the place, water the cactus, tend the palm tree, and get the courtyard ready for God’s loving worshippers.”
“What time are they coming?” he said, a little worried.
“At sunset. When did you arrive?”
“At dawn.”
The Sheikh sat silent for a while, stroking his beard, then said, “You are very wretched, my son!”
“Why?” said Said, anxious to know the answer.
“You’ve had a long sleep, but you know no rest. Just like a child laid under the fire of the blazing sun. Your burning heart yearns for shade, yet continues forward under the fire of the sun. Haven’t you learned to walk yet?”
Said rubbed his bloodshot almond-shaped eyes. “It’s a disturbing thought, to be seen asleep by others.”
“The world is unaware of him who is unaware of it,” the Sheikh replied, showing no concern.
Said’s hand passed lightly over the pocket where he kept the revolver. He wondered what the Sheikh would do if he were to point his gun at him. Would his maddening composure be shaken?
“Are you hungry?” the Sheikh asked.
“No.”
“If it is true that man can be poor in God, so is it true man can be rich in Him,” the Sheikh went on, his eyes almost smiling.
If, that is, the first proposition is indeed true! thought Said. “Well then, Master,” he said lightly, “what would you have done if you’d been afflicted with a wife like mine and if your daughter had rejected you as mine has me?”
A look of pity appeared in the old man’s clear eyes. “God’s slave is owned by God alone!”
Cut off your tongue before it betrays you and confesses your crime! You wish to tell him everything. He probably doesn’t need to be told. He may even have seen you fire the gun. And he may be able to see much more than that.
A voice outside the window hawked The Sphinx. Said got up at once, walked to the window, called the newspaper boy, handed him a small coin, and returned with the paper to where he’d been sitting, forgetting all about the Sheikh, his eyes riveted to a huge black headline: “Dastardly Murder in the Citadel Quarter!” He devoured the lines beneath in a flash, not understanding anything. Was this another murder? His own picture was there and so were pictures of Nabawiyya and Ilish Sidra, but who was that bloodstained man? His own life story was staring at him, too, sensational doings blown in every direction like dust in a whirlwind—the story of a man who came out of prison to find his wife married to one of his underlings. But who was the bloodstained man? How had his bullet entered this stranger’s chest? This victim was someone else, and Said was seeing him for the first time in his life. You’d better start reading again.
The same day he’d visited them with the detective and Ilish’s friends, Ilish Sidra and Nabawiyya had moved out of their flat and another family had moved in, so the voice he’d heard had not been Ilish Sidra’s nor had the screams been Nabawiyya’s. The body was that of one Shaban Husayn, the new tenant, who’d worked in a haberdashery in Sharia Muhammad Ali. Said Mahran had come to murder his wife and his old friend, but had killed the new tenant instead. A neighbor testified that he’d seen Said Mahran leaving the house after the murder and that he’d shouted for the police but his voice had been lost in the din that had filled the entire street.
A failure. It was insane. And pointless. The rope would be after him now, while Ilish sat safe and secure. The truth was as clear as the bottom of an open tomb.
He tore his eyes away from the paper and found the Sheikh staring through the window at the sky, smiling. The smile, for some reason or other, frightened Said: he wished he could stand at the window and look at exactly the same bit of sky the Sheikh was looking at so he could see what it was that made him smile. But the wish was unfulfilled.
Let the Sheikh smile and keep his secret, he thought. Before long the disciples would be here and some of them who’d seen the picture in the paper might recognize him; thousands and thousands would be gaping at his picture now, in a mixture of terror and titillation. Said’s life was finished, spent to no purpose; he was a hunted man and would be to the end of his days; he was alone, and would have to beware of even his own reflection in a mirror—alive but without real life. Like a mummy. He’d have to flee like a rat from one hole to another, threatened by poison, cats, and the clubs of disgusted human beings, suffering all this while his enemies kicked up their heels.
The Sheikh turned to him, saying gently, “You are tired. Go and wash your face.”
“Yes,” Said said irritably, folding up the paper. “I’ll go—and relieve you of the sight of my face.”
With even greater gentleness, the Sheikh said, “This is your home.”
“True, but why shouldn’t I have another place of shelter?”
The Sheikh bowed his head, replying, “If you had another you would never have come to me.”
You must go up the hill and stay there until dark. Avoid the light. Shelter in the dark. Hell, it’s all a waste of time. You’ve killed Shaban Husayn. I wonder who you are, Shaban. We never knew each other. Did you have children? Did you ever imagine that one day you would be killed for no reason—that you’d be killed because Nabawiyya Sulayman married Ilish Sidra? That you’d be killed in error but Ilish, Nabawiyya, and Rauf would not be killed in justice? I, the murderer, understand nothing. Not even Sheikh Ali al-Jumaydi himself can understand anything. I’ve tried to solve part of the riddle, but have only succeeded in unearthing an even greater one. He sighed aloud.
“How tired you are,” said the Sheikh.
“And it is your world that makes me tired!”
“That is what we sing of sometimes,” the Sheikh said placidly.
Said rose, then said, as he was about to go, “Farewell, my Master.”
“Utterly meaningless words, whatever you intend by them,” the Sheikh remonstrated. “Say rather: until we meet again.”