The soul of Sanaan al-Gamali floated in the air of the Café of the Emirs, and its habitués were overcome with distress.
They had witnessed his trial and heard his full confession, and they had seen the sword of Shabeeb Rama the executioner as he chopped off his head. He had a good status among the merchants and the notables, and belonged to that minority that was held in affection by the poor. In front of all these his head had been cut off and his family made destitute. His story was circulated on every tongue, and the hearts of the quarter and the whole city were stirred. The sultan Shahriyar recalled it many a time, and in the café, whose atmosphere had been softened by the harbingers of autumn, Hamdan Tuneisha the contractor said, “God the Creator and Owner of Dominion, Who disposes as He will in His affairs, says to something ‘Be’ and it is. Who among you would have imagined such a fate for Sanaan al-Gamali? Sanaan rape and strangle a young girl of ten? Sanaan kill the governor of the quarter at his first meeting with him?”
“If one regards the genie as far-fetched, the story becomes a riddle,” said Ibrahim the druggist.
“Perhaps it was being bitten by the dog,” said the doctor Abdul Qadir al-Maheeni. “If that were the root cause, then the fantasies of some malignant disease that was not treated as it should have been become possible.”
“There is no one,” said Ibrahim the druggist heatedly, “more experienced than me in the treatment of dog bites, the last being Ma’rouf the cobbler. Isn’t that so, Ma’rouf?”
To which Ma’rouf, from his place among the common people, answered, “Thanks be to God Who accomplished the blessing of the cure.”
“And why shouldn’t we believe the story of the genie?” asked Ugr the barber.
“They exceed human beings in number,” said Ibrahim the water-carrier.
“Death has no need of causes,” said Sahloul the bric-a-brac merchant.
“I have had so many experiences with genies,” said Ma’rouf the cobbler, at which Shamloul the hunchback, the sultan’s buffoon, said, “We know that genies avoid your house in fear of your wife.”
Ma’rouf gave a smile of submission to his destiny, although the jest met with no success in the lugubrious atmosphere.
Galil the draper said, “Sanaan has been ruined, as has his family.”
Karam al-Aseel, the millionaire with the face of a monkey, said, “To extend a helping hand to his family would be regarded as challenging authority. There is no strength or power other than God.”
“The thing I fear the most,” said Ibrahim the druggist, “is that people will shun his family for fear of the evil power of genies.”
Hasan the son of Ibrahim the druggist said, “It is out of the question that anything will change my relationship with Fadil Sanaan.”
“He says to something ‘Be’ and it is,” repeated Hamdan Tuneisha the contractor.
Gamasa al-Bulti the chief of police set off toward the river to indulge in his favorite pastime of fishing. He had given it up for forty days as an act of mourning for his superior, Ali al-Salouli. He was also sorry for the murderer, by virtue of their being neighbors and the long-standing friendship that had made the two families one. It had been he who had arrested him, he who had thrown him into prison, and he who had sent him to court and had finally handed him over to the executioner, Shabeeb Rama; he, too, who had hung his head above his house, had confiscated his possessions and had driven his family from their home to ruin. Though known for his severity and sternness, his serenity had been disturbed and he had been sad at heart—for he had a heart despite the fact that many did not think so. In fact, this heart loved Husniya, Sanaan’s daughter, and he had been on the point of asking for her hand had events not intervened.
Today the weather was beautiful and limpid autumn clouds wandered in the sky. His love, though, had been trampled underfoot by the wheel of circumstance.
He left his mule with a slave, then pushed the boat out to the middle of the river and cast his net: drops of relaxation in the maelstrom of brutish and arduous work. He smiled. In no time a mutual understanding had grown between him and the new governor, Khalil al-Hamadhani. From where did Shahriyar get these governors? The man had given himself away at the very first test—the confiscated properties of Sanaan. He had taken possession of a not inconsiderable portion of them and had fed Buteisha Murgan on them; he had also given Gamasa his share. What remained was assigned to the exchequer. Gamasa had taken his share despite his sadness at his friend’s fate, giving himself the excuse that to refuse would mean a challenge to the new governor: in his heart there was a place for emotions and another place for avidity and hardness. He said to himself, “He who’s too decent goes hungry in this city.” And he asked himself in fun, “What would become of us if a just governor were to take over our affairs?” Had not the sultan himself killed hundreds of virgins and many pious men? How light were his scales when measured against other great rulers!
He breathed deeply: it was truly a beautiful day, the sky dappled with clouds, the air mild and perfumed with the aroma of grass and water, the net filling up with fish. But where was Husniya? Sanaan’s family was now living in a room in a residential building, after all that luxury, the jewels and the stables. Now Umm Saad makes sweetmeats that gladden the hearts of guests, while Fadil hawks them around. As for Husniya, she awaits a bridegroom who won’t come. Did a genie really bring you down, or was it a dog’s bite that destroyed you? I shall not forget your glazed looks and your appeal to me for help, “My family, Gamasa!” It is out of the question that anyone should stretch out a helping hand to your family. Your son Fadil, too, was born a man with his pride. You have perished, Sanaan, and what is past is past. If your genie is truly a believer, let him do something. What an extraordinary sultanate this is, with its people and its genies! It raises aloft the badge of God and yet plunges itself in dirt.
Suddenly his attention was drawn to his hand. The heaviness of the net boded well. Joyfully he brought it in till it was alongside the boat. But he saw not a single fish!
Gamasa al-Bulti was amazed. It contained nothing but a metal ball. He took it up dejectedly, turning it over in his hands. Then he threw it into the bottom of the boat. It made a deep resounding sound. Something strange happened: it was as though it were about to explode. What looked like dust emanated from it, swirling right up into the air until it embraced the autumn clouds. Once the dust had vanished it left a presence that crouched over him, and he was filled with a sensation of how overpowering it was. Despite his familiarity with dangerous situations, Gamasa trembled with terror. He realized that he was in the presence of a genie that had been freed from a bottle. He couldn’t stop himself from calling out, “Protection from harm, by our Lord Solomon!”
“How sweet is freedom after the hell of imprisonment!” said a voice whose like he had not heard before.
With a dry throat al-Bulti said ingratiatingly, “Your liberation has been achieved at my hands.”
“Tell me, first of all, what God has done with Solomon.”
“Our Lord Solomon has been dead for more than a thousand years.”
His head swaying with elation, the other said, “Blessed is the wish of God, which imposed upon us the decree of a human being, whose dust does not ascend to our fire, and that human is the one who has punished me for a lapse of the heart, may God in His mercy forgive worse.”
“Congratulations on your freedom. Go off and enjoy it.”
“I see that you’re keen to make your escape,” he said mockingly.
“Seeing that I was the means to your being liberated.”
“I was freed by nothing but destiny.”
“And I was destiny’s instrument,” said Gamasa eagerly.
“During my long imprisonment,” said the other, “I became filled with anger and the desire for revenge.”
“Pardoning when one can is one of the natural characteristics of noble people,” implored Gamasa.
“You people are skilled at memorizing, quoting, and hypocrisy, and in proportion to your knowledge must be your reckoning, so woe to you!”
“We wage a continuous struggle with ourselves, with people, and with life,” said Gamasa al-Bulti entreatingly, “and the struggle has victims that cannot be numbered, and hope is never lost in the mercy of the Merciful.”
“Mercy is for him who deserves mercy,” said the genie sternly. “God’s vastnesses are spread with the opportunities granted to those who have adhered to wisdom. Thus mercy is due only to those who strive, otherwise offensive smells would spoil the purity of the air illuminated by divine light, so don’t make corruption an excuse for corruption.”
“We believe in mercy even when we are chopping necks and cropping heads.”
“What a hypocrite you are! What’s your job?”
“Chief of police.”
“What titles! Do you perform your duty in a manner that pleases God?”
“My duty is to carry out orders,” said Gamasa apprehensively.
“A slogan suitable for covering up all sorts of evils.”
“I am in no position to do anything about that.”
“If you are called upon to do good, you claim you are incapable; and if you are called upon to do evil, you set about it in the name of duty.”
Gamasa was in a tight corner. The warnings fell upon him and he backed away to the edge of the boat, trembling. At the same time he felt the penetration of a new presence taking control of the place. He knew that another genie had arrived and he was convinced that he was lost. The newcomer addressed the first genie, “Congratulations on your freedom, Singam.”
“Thanks be to God, Qumqam.”
“I haven’t seen you for more than a thousand years.”
“How short they are when measured against life, and how long they are if spent in a bottle!”
“I too landed in the snares of magic, which is like prison in its torture.”
“No harm afflicts us that does not come from human beings.”
“During the period of your absence many were the events that occurred, so maybe you’d like to catch up on what you missed.”
“Indeed, but I would like to take a decision about this human.”
“Let him be for now. In no way is he going to slip from your grasp if you need him, but don’t take a decision while you’re in a rage. No genie among us ever perished except as a prey to his anger. Let’s go to the mountains of Qaf and celebrate your liberation.”
“Till we meet, O chief of police,” said Singam, addressing al-Bulti.
The controlling presence began to dwindle until it disappeared altogether. Gamasa regained the freedom of his limbs, but collapsed on the deck of the boat, his strength drained away. At the same time he was intoxicated with the hope of escape.
Gamasa al-Bulti jumped ashore and was met by a slave, who bowed down to him, then set about folding up the net.
“There’s not a single fish in the net,” he remarked.
“Were you looking in my direction when I was in the boat?” asked Gamasa, his throat dry.
“All the time, master.”
“And what did you see?”
“I saw you casting the net, and then I saw you waiting and drawing it in. That’s why I was astonished to find it empty.”
“You didn’t see any smoke?”
“No, sir.”
“And you didn’t hear a strange sound?”
“None.”
“Perhaps you nodded off.”
“Not at all, master.”
It was impossible for him to have doubts about what had happened. It was more real than reality itself. In his memory was engraved the name Qumqam, as was that of Singam. He recalled in a new form the confessions of Sanaan and it seemed to him now that his old friend had been an unfortunate victim. He wondered anxiously what the unseen could be holding for him.
He buried his secret in his bosom. Even his wife Rasmiya did not know of it. It was a secret that weighed heavily upon him, but what could be done? If one day he divulged it, he would harm his position and lose his post. He stayed awake nights thinking about the consequences and resolved to be cautious. Singam, it would appear, was a believing genie and would be mindful of the good turn he had done by freeing him, even though by accident. He slept following the dawn prayers for a while, then awoke in a better mood. He was by nature strong and would defy difficulties and misgivings. He had got onto friendly terms with al-Salouli and al-Hamadhani, and Singam was no more intractable than they.
As they were drinking their morning milk, Rasmiya said to him, “Yesterday our old neighbor Umm Saad paid me a visit.”
Suddenly his nerves tautened. He appreciated the danger of the visit in the way a policeman would who knew the secrets behind particular circumstances.
“A poor widow, and yet…” he said with distaste.
He hesitated for an instant, then continued, “But her visiting us is harmful to my position.”
“Her situation is heartrending.”
“It’s the situation of the world, Rasmiya, but let’s leave to God what is His.”
“She came with the hope that you could help her in making a petition to the governor to return the family properties.”
“What a foolish woman!” he exclaimed.
“She said that God did not hold the sins of the fathers against the sons.”
“It is Shahriyar himself who pronounced the judgment.”
Then he said frankly, “Sanaan was my friend but what had been decreed came to pass. Perhaps the killing of the girl after raping her does not count as anything when measured against the killing of the governor of the quarter, for the sultan regards the blow directed against his representative as being aimed against his person, and the sultan is still a bloodthirsty ruler despite his unexpected change of heart. Do not, therefore, encourage her to pay you frequent visits, or a curse will descend upon us, a curse under which we shall be powerless.” Downcast, the woman kept silent.
“I am as sad as you are,” he said, “but there is nothing we can do about it.”
He was truthful in what he said: his sorrow for Sanaan’s family did not dissipate, and the origin of that did not lie solely in passionate love. He had liked the man before he had liked his daughter. He was not always devoid of good sentiments and religious remembrances, but he found no objection to practicing corruption in a corrupt world. The truth was that in the quarter there was no heart like his for mingling black with white. So it was that he invited Fadil Sanaan to his house on a visit shrouded with secrecy.
The young man came in his new attire, consisting of a gallabiya and sandals, the garb of a peddler. Gamasa seated himself beside him in the reception room and said, “I am pleased, Fadil, that you are facing up with such courage to the way things have turned out for you.”
“I thank God who has preserved my faith after the loss of position and wealth.”
Truly impressed, Gamasa said, “I summoned you in deference to our long acquaintance.”
“May God bless you, sir.”
He looked at him for a while, then said, “If it weren’t for that I would have allowed myself to arrest you.”
In amazement Fadil inquired, “Arrest me? Why, sir?”
“Don’t pretend not to know. Has not the evil that engulfed you been enough for you? Seek your livelihood far from associating with destructive elements who are the enemies of the sultan.”
“I am nothing but a peddler,” said Fadil with a pallid face.
“Stop dissimulating, Fadil. Nothing is hidden from Gamasa al-Bulti, and my first task, as you know, is to pursue the Shiites and the Kharijites.”*
“I am not one of them,” said Fadil in a low voice. “Early in my life I was a student of Sheikh Abdullah al-Balkhi.”
“I too was a student of his. Many graduate from the school of al-Balkhi—people of the Way and people of the Prophet’s Sunna, Sufis and Sunnis. Some devils who deviate from the Path also graduate.”
“Be sure, sir, that I am as far as can be from those devils.”
“You have very many companions from among them.”
“I have nothing to do with their doctrines.”
“It starts as innocent friendship, then comes degeneration—they are madmen, they accuse the rulers of unbelief and they delude the poor and the slaves. Nothing pleases them, not even fasting in the month of Ragab. It is as though God has chosen them to the exclusion of His other worshipers. Be on your guard against falling into the same fate as your father, for the Devil has all kinds of ways and means. As for me, I know nothing but my duty. I have pledged my loyalty to the sultan, as I have to the governor of the quarter, in exterminating the apostates.”
“Be assured, sir,” said Fadil in a listless tone, “that I am very far distant from the apostates.”
“I have given you fatherly advice, so keep it in mind,” said Gamasa.
“Thank you for your kindness, sir.”
Gamasa began scrutinizing his face in search of points of similarity between him and his sister Husniya. For some moments he was lost in the ecstasy of love. Then he said, “There’s one more matter: I would ask you to inform your mother that to present a petition for the return of the family property would be regarded as a challenge to the sultan. There is no power or strength other than through God.”
“That is also my opinion, sir,” said Fadil meekly.
The meeting ended secretly, as it had begun. Gamasa wondered whether one day he would be given the chance of summoning him that he might ask for Husniya’s hand.
Perhaps Sanaan al-Gamali’s crime was the sole momentous event that occurred during the time Gamasa al-Bulti was in office. No one charged him with being responsible for it, especially after it was known about the genie’s intervention in the matter. This, however, did not apply to what was happening in the quarter at present, for several incidents of highway robbery within the city’s walls had followed in succession with disquieting frequency: money and goods were seized and men were assaulted. Gamasa al-Bulti was assailed by the anger of a capable policeman possessed of self-confidence. He dispatched plain-clothed men to outlying places and had patrols out day and night. He himself searched suspect places, but the incidents continued to occur, making a mockery of his activity, and not a single criminal was arrested.
Karam al-Aseel the millionaire said in the Café of the Emirs, “Security was better in the time of the late al-Salouli.”
“There wasn’t a single highway robber at that time apart from himself,” said the doctor Abdul Qadir al-Maheeni, laughing.
“Gamasa al-Bulti,” said Ugr the barber, “is the worst possible.”
He, after all, saw for himself how such gentlemen behaved when he brought them his services as a barber to their homes.
“Security,” said Ibrahim the druggist, “is the very lifeblood of trade, while trade is the livelihood of the people. I propose that some of us go as a deputation to al-Hamadhani, the governor of our quarter.”
Khalil al-Hamadhani summoned Gamasa al-Bulti to the house of government.
“The city is going to rack and ruin and you’re snoring away fast asleep,” he said severely.
“I haven’t been sleeping and I haven’t been lax,” said the chief of police in a frustrated tone.
“One judges by how things turn out.”
“My hands are tied.”
“What do you want?”
“The vagabonds who had previously been arrested are now beginning to take revenge.”
“It has been established from Sanaan’s confession that they were innocent.”
“Which is why they are taking revenge. They must be re-arrested.”
The governor said heatedly, “The vizier Dandan was annoyed at their being arrested the first time and won’t allow it again.”
Gamasa al-Bulti said sadly, “In any case I’m waging a battle against a force that doesn’t let up.”
“You’ve got to have security under control or I’ll dismiss you.”
Gamasa al-Bulti left the house of government feeling demeaned for the first time in his life.
He was angry about being insulted and his strong and defiant nature took control of him. His tendencies toward good became submerged and disappeared to faraway depths. He reacted to the defeat with the savagery of a man who regards anything as permissible in defense of his authority. Authority had completely absorbed him and had created of him something new so that he had become oblivious to the goodly words he had learned at the hands of the sheikh in the prayer room in the time of innocence. Quickly he gathered his aides and poured upon them the stream of invective he had endured in the hall of the headquarters, opening wide the windows of hellfire. Whenever a new incident took place he arrested tens of people and tortured them unmercifully. As a result of this, his pursuit of the Shiites and the Kharijites decreased so that they were able to redouble their activity. They composed secret newssheets that were full of indictments of the sultan and the men in charge of affairs and which demanded that the Quran and the Prophet’s Traditional Sayings should become the basis for legal rulings. Becoming frantic, he also arrested many of them, so that an air of dread hung over the whole quarter and all went in fear and trembling. Al-Hamadhani found the violence of the steps being taken shocking. Yet he closed his eyes in his desire to find an end to the incidents. Despite all that, they increased in number and violence.
Though defeated, Gamasa al-Bulti refused to admit it. He began spending many nights at the police headquarters until the pressure of work affected his unusual strength. Once, overcome by sleep in the room where he worked, he yielded to it like a wounded lion. He did not achieve the hoped-for rest, however, but was cast under the weight of a being who took over his entire body.
“Singam!” he whispered in bewilderment.
The voice came to him, invading his very being, “Yes, chief of police.”
“What has prompted you to come?” he asked him, in loathing.
“The stupidity of those who claim they are intelligent.”
Suddenly Gamasa’s mind saw the light.
“Now we know,” he said, “the secret of the brigands of whom no one can find any trace.”
“Now only?”
“How could I guess that you are their master?”
“Admit, despite your conceit, that you are stupid.”
He asked Singam defiantly, “How is it that you are so little worried about stealing people’s property when mention of God is constantly on your lips?”
“My anger has fallen only upon that group of people who take advantage of other human beings!”
Gamasa sighed and said, as though talking to himself, “I shall lose my job because of this.”
“You too are of the corrupt group of people.”
“I am incomparable in the way I perform my duty.”
“And money come by dishonestly?”
“Merely the crumbs that fall from the tables of the great.”
“A shameful excuse.”
“I’m living in the world of humans.”
“And do you know about the great?”
“Every tiny detail. They are nothing but thieves and scoundrels.”
“Yet you protect them with your sharp-cutting sword,” the voice said, scornfully, “and you attack their enemies, who are honorable people of sound opinion and judgment.”
“I am executing orders and the path I tread is clear.”
“Rather are you pursued by the curse of protecting criminals and persecuting respectable people.”
“Any man who thinks when doing such a task as mine perishes.”
“Then you’re a mindless instrument.”
“My mind is solely in the service of my duty.”
“An excuse that tends to nullify the humanity of a human.”
An idea flashed within him and doors and windows opened before him.
“The fact is that I am not satisfied with myself,” he said ruefully.
“Sheer lies!”
“I have never succeeded in uprooting noble inner voices. They always converse with me in the silence of the night.”
“I don’t find any trace of them in your life.”
“I require,” he said slyly, “some force to support me when I need it.”
“But you are chasing away the noble voices just as you do honest men.”
“I put myself on trial,” he said challengingly.
“Make plain what you mean.”
“Put your power to supporting me rather than thwarting me.”
“What do you want?”
“To do away with the criminals and to rule the people justly and honestly.”
A peal of laughter rang out, filling the universe.
“You would like to double-cross me in order to realize your hidden dreams of power and authority.”
“As a method, not as a goal.”
“Your heart is still sunk in bondage.”
“Try me out if you wish.”
“I am a believing genie and I never overstep the bounds.”
“Then remove yourself in peace from my path,” said Gamasa once more, in despair.
“The fact is that I thought tranquilly on top of the mountains of Qaf and was persuaded that you had rendered me a service that cannot be gainsaid, even though unintended. I have thus decided to return the favor with a like one and not to overstep the bounds.”
“But you are doing the very opposite of what you intended.”
“How stupid you are!”
“Explain your purpose to me,” he pleaded.
“You have a mind, a will, and a soul.”
He was about to plead more with him but the genie let out a scornful laugh, then quickly withdrew his presence and vanished.
Gamasa al-Bulti awoke to a knocking at the door. His deputy walked in to inform him he was summoned to meet the governor al-Hamadhani.
He wished he had been left to himself to think things over, but he had no choice but to go. He expected no good at all to come from the meeting. The flashes of hope in the autumn sky disappeared and the drums of victory fell silent. He would seesaw for a long time between the governor and Singam’s pranks. He plunged into a bottomless pool of speculation as he rode on his mule along the road to the house of government, the way filled with movement and sound. He was encompassed by life’s demands, followed scornfully by people’s eyes. No joys or delusions: the days of pride had come to an end. A despised person feeding off ignominy—that is what Singam had persuaded him he was. His sole consolation was that he was the sword of state. But the sword had become blunt and security had broken down, so of what consequence was he? A murderous robber, protector of criminals, torturer of innocent men. He had forgotten God until he had been reminded of Him by a genie.
He found Khalil al-Hamadhani standing in the middle of the reception hall like a spear ready for battle.
“The peace of God be upon you, O Emir,” said Gamasa gently, to which the governor shouted in a voice trembling with rage, “Peace with your presence is nonexistent!”
“I work myself to death.”
“And so the jewels of my women are stolen from within my own house!”
This was more than he expected. He wondered what Singam had been up to. He was dumbstruck.
“You’re nothing but a useless hashish addict, an associate of thieves.”
“I’m the chief of police,” he said in a gruff voice.
“We’ll meet up in the evening,” shouted the governor, “or I’ll sack you and cut off your head.”
What was the point of searching? What could his men do in the face of Singam’s power? He would be dismissed and would lose his honor, also his head. It was a fate to which he had often dispatched other people, so how could he blame him? But Gamasa would not accept his fate without defending himself—and fiercely too. Here was his life spread out before his eyes like a page: a concrete and terrifying testimony. It had started with a pact with God and had ended with one with the Devil. He had to topple it before death. The thought of the sheikh came to him like a stray breeze on a scorching summer’s day: it blew, borne along on pure thoughts of nostalgia. He said to himself, “This is his time.” He drew him forth from his deepest depths when his sorrows had ripped apart the solid crust besmirched with blood.
He found him in the simple reception room, as though expecting him. He bent over his head, silently, then squatted down on a cushion in front of him. Memories were inhaled like the perfume of a wilted rose, and in the empty space there materialized before him the verses of the Quran and the Sayings of the Prophet and the remnants of good intentions, like drops of blood. He drank his fill from the immanence of the divinely inspired peace until he was overcome with a sense of shame.
“I can read your feelings toward me, master,” he said sadly.
“The knowledge of that is with God alone,” said Abdullah al-Balkhi with his immutable calm, “so do not claim that of which you have no knowledge.”
“In people’s opinion,” he said sadly, “I am a bloodthirsty policeman.”
“Why, I wonder, do shedders of blood visit me?”
“How pleasant you are, master,” he said, having taken heart. “The fact is, I have a story I would like you to hear.”
“I have no desire to hear it,” he said haughtily.
“I must make a decision and in no way can its significance be understood without the story being told.”
“The decision is sufficient for an understanding of the story.”
“The matter requires taking counsel,” he said uneasily.
“No, it’s your decision alone.”
“Listen to my extraordinary story,” he pleaded.
“No. One sole thing concerns me,” he said calmly.
“What is it, master?”
“That you take your decision for the sake of God alone.”
“It’s for this reason that I am in need of your opinion,” he said helplessly.
The sheikh said with resolute calm, “The story is yours alone and the decision yours alone.”
He left the sheikh’s house divided between doubt and certainty. It was…if the sheikh knew his story and his decision, as though he were blessing his decision provided it were for the sake of God alone. Had not despair played a role? Had not self-defense played another role? Had not desire for revenge played a third role? Would it, he wondered, diminish repentance if it were preceded by a sin? The thing to be taken into consideration was the final intention and persisting in it to the end. He was, in any case, burying the old Gamasa and evoking another one.
When he had taken his decision he gave a deep sigh of relief. His energy was redoubled. He visited his home and sat down with Rasmiya, his wife, and his daughter Akraman. His heart was flooded with mysteriously fervent emotions that made him feel his solitude more and more. Even Singam left him to his solitude. Nevertheless his resolution was final and knew no wavering. He faced the most dangerous situation in his life with rare courage and unfaltering resolve.
Returning to his place of work he freed, at his own initiative, the Shiites and Kharijites. He did this in a complete daze, and both troops and victims too were astonished at this action of his. As soon as it was evening he went to the house of government. He turned his gaze from the faces and places he met on his way as though they no longer concerned him. Finally he saw Khalil al-Hamadhani waiting with calm resoluteness, and he did not doubt that he too had arrived at a decision. The reception hall embraced them, no one being present but the human sufferings accumulated behind the cushions and fine draperies, and witnesses from all bygone generations. Exchanging no greeting, the governor coldly asked him, “What have you got to say?”
“Everything’s fine,” said Gamasa al-Bulti confidently.
“You’ve arrested the thief?” he inquired with sudden optimism.
“I’ve come for that purpose.”
The governor frowned questioningly. “Do you think he’s in my household?”
Gamasa pointed at him. “There he is,” he said, “talking unashamedly.”
“By the Lord of the Kaaba, you’ve gone crazy!” shouted Khalil al-Hamadhani, aghast.
“It is the truth being spoken for the first time.”
As the governor prepared to take action, Gamasa drew his sword. “You’ll receive your true deserts.”
“You’ve gone crazy, you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I am doing my duty,” he said calmly.
“Come to your senses—you’re throwing yourself into the executioner’s hands,” he said in utter confusion and terror.
Gamasa launched a lethal blow at the neck. The governor’s terrified screams mingled with his strangled bellowing as his blood spouted like a fountain.
Gamasa al-Bulti was arrested and the sword snatched from his hand. He did not try to escape. He did not resist: he believed that his task had been completed. And so a sense of calm and serenity came over him, and a wave of extraordinary courage rose up that made him feel as though he were treading on his executioners, that he was greater than he imagined and that the base actions he had committed were in no way worthy of him and that submitting to their influence was a degradation that had driven him to his downfall and to being alienated from his human nature. He told himself that he was now practicing a form of worship whose purity would wash clean the filth of long years of dissipation.
With the autumnal breeze was spread the news, which became the talk of the high-class and the common folk. Consternation brought forth countless questions. Predictions conflicted and the ravings of maniacs flared up, while disorder began to sweep over the quarter and the city, its false rumors rising up to the sultan’s palace itself. The vizier Dandan soon moved to the house of government at the head of a squadron of cavalry.
In irons, Gamasa al-Bulti was brought before the throne in the Hall of Judgment. Shahriyar appeared in his red cloak which he wore when sitting in judgment, on his head a tall turban studded with rare jewels. To his right stood Dandan, to his left the men of state, while guards were ranged on both sides. Behind the throne was Rama the executioner.
The sultan’s eyes had a heavy look burdened with thought. He scrutinized the face of the chief of police for a long time, then asked him, “Do you not admit that I showed you my favor, Gamasa?”
The man answered in a strong, stirring voice. “Certainly, O Sultan.”
The sultan waited for some sign of defiance from the prisoner despite his being shackled in irons.
“Do you admit killing Khalil al-Hamadhani, my deputy in your quarter?” he asked with a frown.
“Yes, O Sultan.”
“What made you commit your repugnant crime?”
“It was to fulfill the just will of God,” he said clearly and without heed to the consequences.
“And do you know what God the Almighty wants?”
“This is what I was inspired with through an extraordinary story that changed the course of my life.”
The sultan, drawn to the word “story,” inquired, “And what was that?”
Gamasa related his tale: being born of ordinary folk; studying at the prayer room of Sheikh Abdullah al-Balkhi; leaving the sheikh after learning the rudiments of religion, reading, and writing; his strong physique that had qualified him for service in the police; being chosen to be chief of police because of his rare ability; and being corrupted step by step until with time he was the protector of the corrupt and an executioner of the people of sense and judgment; the appearance of Singam in his life; the crises he had been through; and—finally—his bloody act of repentance.
Shahriyar followed attentively, with clearly conflicting reactions to his words.
“Gamasa’s Singam following on from Sanaan al-Gamali’s Qumqam,” he said coldly. “We’ve found ourselves in the age of genies who have nothing better to do than kill governors.”
“I haven’t—and God is my witness—added a single word to the facts,” said Gamasa.
“Perhaps you are dreaming that that will save you from punishment.”
“My boldness affirms that I don’t care,” he said scornfully.
At a loss, Shahriyar said, “So let your head be cut off and hung above the door of your house, and let your properties be confiscated.”
In an underground prison, and in darkness, he fought his pains and clung to his courage. He had aroused the sultan’s ire and had triumphed over him, leaving him on his throne mumbling in defeat. Sorrowfully, he remembered Rasmiya and Akraman, while Husniya too ranged through his thoughts. His family would endure the same ignominy as had Sanaan’s, but God’s mercy was stronger than the universe. He thought that he would remain sleepless, but in fact he slept deeply, only waking at a loud noise and light from torches. Perhaps it was the morning and these were the soldiers come to lead him off to execution. The square would be crammed with people who had come out of curiosity, and there would be a mass of conflicting emotions. So be it. But what was he seeing? He was seeing the soldiers falling upon Gamasa al-Bulti with kicks, while the man woke up moaning with terror. What was the meaning of this? Was he dreaming? If that was Gamasa al-Bulti, then who was he? How was it that no one was taking any notice of him, as though he wasn’t there? Amazed, he feared he was losing his mind—perhaps he had already done so. He was seeing Gamasa al-Bulti right there in front of him. The soldiers were driving him outside. And he—unlike him—was in a state of extreme terror and collapse. He also found himself free of his bonds. Resolved to leave the prison, he followed after the others. No one paid him any attention.
The whole city was crammed into the square where the punishment was to take place—men, women, and children. In the forefront were the sultan and the men of state. The leather apron, on which the execution would be performed, lay in the middle, with, alongside it, Shabeeb Rama and a group of his assistants. Neither Rasmiya nor Akraman had come, which was good. How many of the faces he knew and had had dealings with! He moved from place to place, but no one heeded him. As for Gamasa al-Bulti, he was approaching the leather apron amid his guards. A single face often appeared to him and surprised him: it was the face of Sahloul the bric-a-brac merchant. When the moment of awesome silence took control, and the leather apron wrenched all eyes to itself, his heart beat fast and it seemed to him he would breathe his last after the other’s head had fallen. In a moment heavy with silence Shabeeb Rama’s sword was raised aloft, then brought down like a thunderbolt, the head fell, and the story of Gamasa al-Bulti was at an end.
Gamasa al-Bulti had expected death, yet he passed it by and went off. His bewilderment was redoubled as he moved among the flow of people leaving, until the square was completely empty. He asked himself, “Am I Gamasa al-Bulti?” at which the voice of Singam came in answer, “How could you doubt it?”
The man, in a state of extreme excitement, called out, “Singam, it’s you who are responsible for this miracle!”
“You are alive—all they killed was a likeness of my making.”
“I am indebted to you for my life, so don’t abandon me.”
“No,” he said distinctly, “now we’re all square. I commend you to the protection of God.”
“But how can I appear before people?” he called out in alarm.
“It is quite impossible for people to recognize you. Look in the first mirror you come across.”
* A sect of dissenters in early Islam.